


Senseless (Full Version)

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-05
Updated: 2000-01-04
Packaged: 2018-11-10 09:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 110,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: REVISED AND COMPLETED! A tribute to the victims of the Littleton massacre.  The aftermath of a violent shooting leaves Fraser at the mercy of a merciless press.





	1. Senseless (Full Version)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Senseless

 

****

 

  **BY: VOYAGERBABE**

RATING:

_ _

R

for language, violence, and intense imagery.

  **PAIRINGS** :

__

None

  **WARNINGS** :

__

LANGUAGE

VIOLENCE

CURRENT EVENTS VIOLENCE

****

TIMEFRAME:

__

Between "Vault" and "Bird In Hand"

****

SPOILERS:

__

Nearly every episode in the first and early second seasons...several allusions to later episodes, as late as Call Of The Wild, including Ray Kowalski. Very slight crossover with ER. 

****

 

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

 

First, I would like to offer my profound and groveling thanks to Clara Showalter, pjs, DocJan, Elyse Dickenson, and the members of RedSuitsYou. These wonderful women have been invaluable aid, hauling me out of the deep dark depths of plot hell and wrestling my pecking at the keyboard into something more or less workable. 

****

 pjs...Thank you kindly for putting up with my unending IM's, IRC's, emails, and generally being an annoyance. Also, I freely admit that she fleshed out the pitiful skeleton of the plot into what you see on your screen now.

Clara...a real EMT (she doesn't just play one in the story) with a heart of gold. I have her to blame for my Due South addiction, and she's a wonderful writer in her own right. Thanks for getting me hooked, Clara!

Doc...without you, my medical knowledge would be confined to Band-Aids and what I could pull from my Dad. You've helped me know an ICP bolt from an ICU ward. Thanks a ton, mate! You're right on! 

Elyse...your beautiful fanfic got me into the whole world of Due South stories. You know these characters brilliantly, and I thank you kindly for your wonderful insight into their souls.

To my Mom, who provided an untiring sounding board over miles and miles of mall and woodlands alike. She is actually responsible for 90% of the plot logic and characterization. She beats me through every step of logic, insisting on knowing the why for every action and motivation. She makes them think...I only make them move. 

To all of you whom I've met on , but especially Jen LG, Icecat, Zzzaney, Marie-Andree Crothers, Caroline VonTrott, Lucky 13, Noel Bell, Jo March, Pin, Shirley Edstedet, Janice Seager, Anna McLain, Eileen McLean, Karol, Courser, Jim Vickers, and so many others whom I cannot begin to name...you all pushed me to finish writing this monstrosity, and without your continuing support and feedback, this never would have been completed. I am proud to be a member of a list with such a wellspring of incredible talent and generosity of spirit. I have to say that of all the Internet lists I've been a part of, none has had the sense of fellowship and support that abounds on RSY. This story really belongs to you.

But as special as those people are, they aren't the reason I wrote this story. 

This story is dedicated to Cassie Bernall, Stephen Curnow, Corey DePooter, Kelly Fleming, Matthew Kechter, Daniel Mauser, Daniel Rohrbough, William 'Dave' Sanders, Rachel Scott, Isaiah Shoels, John Tomlin, Laura Townsend, and Kyle Velasquez. These lives were ended in violence on April 22nd in Littleton, Colorado, when two young men took their hate into Columbine Highschool and began to kill. It was an act of senseless brutality, but it is an act that America will hopefully learn from, and must never be allowed to happen again. To those young men and women, and to the friends and family who now shed tears of grief over their premature graves....this is for you.

This is for every act of senseless violence in the long and dark history of this nation.

This is for never forgetting.

This is for the hope of never again.

****

 

PART ONE

In The Blink Of An Eye

****

 ********************************************************

 Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, almost sighed aloud with relief as he answered the last question. It was over, and not a moment too soon.

 The Mountie was a patient man, and very polite (almost ad nauseum in many people's opinions). They were traits he was rather proud of, having carefully cultivated them since he was a small boy, and usually, they served him well. This time though, they had only served to get him noticed. 

 He had been noticed by a nameless Ottawa bureaucrat who had seen Fraser's file, his long list of cases solved jointly with the American police and FBI. His reviews indicated an officer who was impeccably behaved, conducting himself as the very epitome of all the R.C.M.P stood for. He clearly got along well with the Americans, and even lived right in the middle of an American city. In short, he was the perfect Chicago Ambassador for the new project that R.C.M.P headquarters had dreamed up, the Meet The Mounties public relations campaign. 

 Thus, over the last two weeks, Benton Fraser had been to thirteen embassies, one opera, two cocktail parties, and eleven schools. He had donned the red serge dress uniform and answered questions, finger-painted with children, danced with Ambassador's wives, and listened to ear-shattering sopranos. There had been moments when he would have given absolutely anything to be up in the Territories again. Anything to be alone with Diefenbaker in his father's cabin, far, far, far away from anyone who had questions about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

 The schools had been the worst. The elementary schools had been bad, the questions having centered to an alarming degree on bodily functions, and Dief having been subjected to 'petting' that strongly resembled the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. The middle schools had been better, with children old enough to ask intelligent, informed questions, but still young enough to be curious and interested in the answers. But the highschools....

 Fraser was glad that this was the very last highschool he would be speaking at. Quite a few of the girls had displayed behavior that was truly disturbing to the Mountie, considering the degree of open seduction being attempted by girls as young as fourteen. Few of the boys had done much else other than mock his mannerly attitude, the concept of chivalry clearly far from their minds. Many questions had shown a dismaying degree of disrespect, a disrespect that Fraser suspected was partially due to what he had seen of the American opinion of law in general. There had, however, been a handful of truly attentive, eager students, and for that he was grateful. 

 Still, he wanted to get home. He was tired, the red serge was feeling rather warm in the late April heat, and Diefenbaker needed to have the gum bestowed by Mrs. Gordano's third graders cut out of his coat. Still, he was careful to be sure that no one would notice his relief, smiling and nodding as the teacher blithely thanked him for taking the time to speak to them. He touched the brim of his Stetson in return, "Thank you kindly for letting me -"

 His words were cut off by a scream. 

 It was faint, clearly issuing from some distant point in the school, but it was unmistakably a scream. There was a heartbeat of silence, then another noise, a sharp 'rat-a-tat-tat' that echoed like firecrackers. The sound was unmistakably gunfire. It was gunfire that was accompanied by more screaming and the sound of people running for their lives. 

 Almost as one, the students panicked. Most leapt up from their desks and ran for the doors, ignoring Fraser and their teacher as they were urged to stay put and remain calm. Others ducked under the furniture, putting their hands over their heads and curling into tight balls. The cries and gunfire continued. By Fraser's calculations, there was only one gunman, using a semi-automatic weapon. One gunman was more than able to cause plenty of damage. 

 Fraser caught hold of the teacher's arm, looking her straight in the eye. "Keep the children in here. If you hear the gunfire getting closer, take them out, but please do your best to keep them calm. I will be attempting to rectify this situation." Her large eyes -- an unnatural violet thanks to contact lenses -- were wide with terror, but she nodded. 

 "Yes, sir."

 He nodded back quickly. "Thank you kindly," then slipped out into the hall. 

 It was as though he was swimming against the current of a very strong river, and in a way, he was. The river of students poured past him, a frightened, stampeding mass of tears and screams and scattered book bags. His eyes swept the teenagers for the gunman, looking for the telltale bulge of a firearm beneath a varsity jacket, the silver glint of a gun's barrel protruding from a backpack. He was looking for a face, any face that didn't display fear. But the fear was there on every face. Tears streaked mascara down the cheeks of terrified girls. Boys as pale as sheets clutched their girlfriends close, trying not to let their own fear be seen. 

 Fraser forced himself to shut it out. He had to ignore their fear. He had to find the one responsible for it. 

 Soon, the tide of students ebbed, then ceased all together, and the halls of the school took on an eerie feel of desertion. Discarded papers wafted slowly to the floor from open lockers. Someone's books were scattered across the tile, the pages ripped from their spines by panicked feet. The beads of a girl's broken necklace still rolled loosely. Bright red drops of blood stood out starkly against the dirty white of the floor. 

 Tuning out the sounds of the exodus behind him, Fraser could hear what everyone had been fleeing. Suppressed sobs and choked cries of fear were mixed with a girl's shrill screams of absolute terror, and the sneering, taunting tones of a young man. Caucasian. Educated. His words were a little slurred, as if he had been drinking. 

 "What do you think now, bitch? Do you want to live? Huh?!! You want to live so that goddamn jock can fuck you again? Huh? Or do you want do die like the fucking slut you are? You want to die?!!! Huh? Huh?!!" His voice had risen to a hysterical pitch, as the screams of his victim began to fade away into desperate gulps for air. 

 Slowly, Fraser eased down the hall, Dief by his side. The entire thing was occurring right around the next corner, only about ten meters of flimsy lockers and school spirit posters separating them. Careful not to make any noise that might alert the criminal, he reached down, easing his knife from its holster in his boot. The shiny surface served as a perfect mirror as he held it around the corner, and he felt his throat go dry at what it revealed. 

 The young girl he had heard screaming was there, pressed face-first against a locker. Her long strawberry-blonde hair was twisted into the fist of the boy who was holding here there, pressing the barrel of a semi-automatic Ruger rifle into the back of her head. The cold metal had snapped the wings off the delicate butterfly barrette she had been wearing. Both the pale pink of her tee-shirt and the freckled skin of her arms were streaked with blood. 

 The boy was about seventeen years old, with long, dirty brown hair, and skin that seemed sallow and pimply beneath it's coating of black greasepaint. A black bandanna was tied around his head, and he was dressed in army fatigues that were a size too large. Two old-fashioned ammunition belts were draped bandit-style across his torso, although Fraser knew that the real ammunition was in the three clips on his belt. His feet were clad in blood spattered hiking boots. His face bore an expression that made Fraser's blood run cold. He was enjoying this, his lips quirked up into a demented smile, his brown eyes bearing no expression whatsoever. 

 Around the young gunman and his victim, eight other students were cowering as far back against their lockers as they could, trying not to move lest they attract attention. At least three of those were wounded, and one Asian boy wearing a letterman's jacket could not stop himself from crying aloud at the pain of the bullet that had shattered his shoulder. 

 Fraser could also see three others lying on the floor. They were unmoving, blood pooled beneath their bodies. They were dead. 

 The girl was pleading for her life now, begging him not to shoot her. She received no answer, and the gunman's face twisted into an expression of cruel amusement as he slowly turned the weapon against the butterfly clip, reminding her of its presence. 

 Fraser slipped the knife into it's sheath as he slid back against the locker, trying to decide what to do now. If he appeared too suddenly, if he tried to interfere, the boy might kill her. If he did nothing, she might also die. Should he wait for the SWAT team that was surely on their way? Or should he rather make an attempt at rescue immediately, before the assailant became any more agitated than he already was?

 As he considered his options, a book bag that had been left on top of one of the lockers began to slide. Fraser's blue eyes widened in horror as he watched it slip more and more off balance, knowing he couldn't move to catch it without being seen, afraid of what the sudden noise would cause. Soon, it did indeed fall, the textbooks scattering with a resounding crash. 

 Fraser closed his eyes, holding his breath. There was no answering tattoo of bullets. Instead, there was a moment of silence, then the boy's voice rang out. "Who's there?!" 

 He remained quiet. 

 "Are you the cops?! Show yourselves right now, or I put a bullet up this bitch's ass!"

 Cautiously, his hands spread to show he was unarmed, Fraser stepped out into the gunman's view. A quick look ordered Diefenbaker to stay put. Thankfully, the wolf chose that time to be obedient. Fraser was painfully aware of the suddenly hopeful looks on the teenager's faces as he emerged. They were all expecting him to save them. The question was, could he?

 The gunman tilted his head oddly, his hands stroking the weapon like a beloved pet. "Well, isn't this fucking nice. Fucking cops send us Dudley Do-Right. What is this, asshole...Halloween?" He sniggered at his own joke, but Fraser remained calm and unthreatening, his hands still raised. 

 "My name is Benton Fraser." He omitted his title, not wanting to provoke the young man with his status as a law enforcement officer. 

 "'Benton Fraser'", the boy mocked. "I'm Fuck You." His eyes narrowed. "Are you serious about that goddamned monkey suit?" 

 "Well...yes."

 "So you're really one of those fucking Mountie pricks." 

 "I am an RCMP officer, yes." 

 "Good." The boy's face lit up in a truly delighted expression. "Even more fun than a cop. So tell me, Dudley," Abruptly, he swung the barrel of the weapon back to the head of the blonde girl, still trembling with her face pressed to the locker, "should I kill her? This is the football captain's fucking whore...should I kill the bitch, Dudley?" 

 Fraser felt almost physically ill at what he was watching, but he forced his voice to remain calm and neutral. "No, I don't really think so." 

 "Okay." The reply was flip, sing-song almost. Then the barrel swung to the next student, who had clearly been shot once already, his knee a battered mess. "What about this son of a bitch? President of the whole fucking student body. Should he die, Dudley? Or should it be this one, the nigger? Or this one? Or this one?" The weapon veered from one cowering teen to the next, as the assailant's voice rose to fever pitch. "Who dies, Dudley?!! Your call!!" 

 There was a moment's pause, then the youth's eyes gleamed, and the gun swung to point directly at Fraser himself. "How about you?" 

 Without a moment's warning, Diefenbaker sprang from behind the lockers, the thin veneer of donut-stealing civilization vanishing in a terrifying exhibition of his wild ancestry. His lips pulled back to expose long, sharp fangs, and the fur of his ruff stood up like a savage halo. The young gunman stopped his tirade, looking in frightened fascination at the huge beast hurtling at him, a deep, menacing growl announcing his intent. He started to raise the barrel of his gun again, but Diefenbaker's jaws clamped firmly onto his wrist, causing his fingers to release and send the weapon hurtling down the hall. 

 Relief flooded through Fraser at the sudden defusing of the situation by his lupine friend. He started to run forward, wanting to complete the job of immobilizing the gunman until the police sirens he now heard wailing in the distance could arrive. The Mountie was only two paces away when Diefenbaker's fierce growls suddenly ascended into a childlike yelp of pain. The wolf fell back, and Fraser stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed in shock at the sight of the knife in the young man's hand. 

 Scarlet blood had soaked the creamy fur of the wolf's abdomen, and his legs were pedaling spasmodically, streaking more of the red fluid across the tile of the hall. His brown eyes looked up at Fraser, hurting, pleading, and the Constable almost missed the movement of the gunman. 

 His wrist was bleeding from the wolf's bite, but he was reaching for his lost weapon, knowing that the students still clinging to the walls were too frightened to do anything. Fraser felt something within him grow cold and hard, a feeling he had experienced only once before, when facing his father's murderer. This boy had already killed at least three other children, and may well have murdered Diefenbaker as well. If he got hold of that weapon, he would kill again, and what's more, Deif's sacrifice would have been in vain.

 Desperately, he hurled himself across the two meters. He tackled the young man only a split second before his fingers would have closed on the stock of the rifle. Their eyes met, and Fraser shivered as he recognized the glassy expression. It was the look of hate and drugs, a combination that would turn an ordinary boy into a berserker, incapable of feeling remorse or pain. 

 The youth's sinewy form was surprisingly strong and flexible, and it reminded the Mountie of attempting to restrain an octopus. He could see the hilt of a second knife lodged in the boy's belt, and he knew that he couldn't let him reach it. Fraser was engaged in a deadly waltz up and down the hall. Here a twist, there a dip, one, two, three, one, two, three. Misstep and a lot of innocent people die. 

 They were close to a window, and Fraser could see that a large number of Chicago PD squad cars had gathered on the street below, along with a distinctive green Riviera. He began to maneuver the boy closer to the window, trying to give a clear shot to one of the snipers he knew was there. Fraser prayed they could tell the difference between RCMP scarlet and the mottled greens and tawny shades of camouflage. 

 No shot rang out to end the dance, but Fraser finally managed to get the upper hand, pinning the boy's arms behind his back in a macabre embrace. The youth continued to struggle, but Fraser knew it was mostly over now. He had him. He took a small step closer to the window, intending to signal his capture, but his boot abruptly met with a slick pool of blood on the floor, blood spilt from the first student shot. 

 Irrelevantly, Fraser's memory recalled that her name had been Rebecca Leiberman, and that she had asked him if all the police in Canada were Mounties. She was a nice girl, but dead now. It was really quite a shame. 

 This all went through his mind in the split second that his footing flew out from under him. He crashed headlong into the window, still locked together with the gunman, and he felt the glass shatter beneath their weight. There was a moment of suspended time as they plummeted to the ground from the second story, until they slammed harshly into the concrete basketball court below. 

 Light and pain exploded through Fraser's skull, a display of agony a thousand times brighter than the Canada Day fireworks he had seen as a boy. Some nagging instinct tried to rise itself, insisting that he had a criminal to deal with. He tried to get up, but the fireworks intensified, and he felt the world twist and sway around a body that suddenly refused to obey his commands. The fireworks reached a spectacular crescendo, and he could not hear the gasp of pain that escaped his lips as he collapsed completely.

 Then there was nothing but darkness.

***

 "Of all the goddamn schools!" Detective Ray Vecchio looked up at the window to double-check what he'd seen, then turned, slamming a kick into the tire of the Riv. Benny would have to be here. Here, in this school, at the exact time that some kid had decided to go shoot the place up. It figured. 

 It wasn't even as though it could be case of mistaken identity. After all, there weren't too many men who ran around Chicago in bright red jackets and Stetsons, and had enough of a hero complex to jump kids with guns. No, Benton Fraser was up there all right. 

 Ray sighed as he watched the officers and detectives milling around. Fraser's sudden action had thrown off all their plans, and he could see the anxiety on their faces. It wasn't just a scene that had gone wrong. This was their friend. Most of the guys in the 27th had worked with the Canadian at least once. For all his oddities, the Mountie tended to be pretty likable. It had gotten to the point where almost everyone considered him something of an honorary cop.

 He spotted Detective Jack Huey moving towards him, waving in an attempt to get his attention. "Ray!"

 "Whaddya need, Jack?" Ray looked more or less in the direction of his co-worker, but part of his gaze never left the window. 

 "The kids are saying he's got the wolf in there." 

 This got Ray's full attention. "Dief?" 

 "Yeah. The SWAT team wants to know if he can - " The question was cut off by the sound of shattering glass. All eyes looked up, and to Ray, it seemed as if time slowed to a crawl. Benny was locked in combat with the creep who'd been doing the shooting, and they never separated an inch, even as they fell through the window. The two figures fell headfirst, the youth's head striking the concrete first, followed by Benny's head and shoulder. Neither man made a sound as they smashed into the earth.

 Ray imagined he could hear bones snap, even though he was almost twenty meters away. Oddly, the first thing he noticed was that Benny's hat was pretty well crushed. Benny was so fastidious about the hat...he'd really hate that. He continued to watch with the same feeling of detachment as the Mountie slowly released his hold on the kid and sagged over onto his back. There he lay, completely limp and unmoving. 

 Shaking off the spell of shock, Ray began to run towards his friend, but found Huey's strong arms holding him back. "What the hell's the matter with you?!", he shouted. "Fraser's been hurt!"

 "And the EMTs can handle that just fine." Huey looked sternly at the wiry Italian. "Look, Ray, he's my friend too. But there's nothing we can do right now, and we've got a hell of a crime scene up there." 

 Ray kept his eyes glued on his brown wingtips as he walked into the school, unable to look towards where Benny's motionless form had been surrounded by medics. He didn't want to know, because if it was bad news, he knew he wouldn't be able to continue with his job. As they went into the school, he could hear the snapping of cameras behind him. They were both police and media, and he knew that this was going to be all over the front page by the next morning. He didn't care. As long as the headlines didn't say anything about dead Mounties.

 Deliberately, Ray let himself go to autopilot. This was just another scene. Just another dead kid, another nasty example of Chicago's dark side. He tried to ignore the little details that hurt. The lipstick on the dead boy's mouth that said he'd been kissing his girlfriend just before he was killed. The dog-eared picture of a prom dress, lovingly cut from a magazine but soaked with blood. The straight-A report card trampled in the hall. 

 He couldn't shut it all out, though. It was part of being a cop. He had to look at all the details. Every spent shell. Every scattered paper. Every drop of blood, whether it was a splatter, a bootprint, or a.... Ray's eyes traveled along a trail of blood on the tile floor. It collected in a thick pool, then streaked off, as though a body had been dragged. He motioned to Huey. "Jack, look at this. I think we might have another wounded kid." 

 Part of him heard Huey radioing for more medics, but Ray concentrated on the trail of blood, following it around the corner and over to where the door of the stairwell was wedged partly open. Ray felt himself pale when he saw that it wasn't a pair of tennis shoes or a backpack that held it open. It was a paw. It was a white paw darkened with blood. "Dief! Dammit, Jack, it's Deifenbaker!" 

 The big man rushed over, his eyes widening as he saw the wolf. "Son of a bitch!" Ray could hear the catch in Huey's voice, but he didn't fault him. The animal was only just breathing, his ribs rising and falling in barely perceptible motions. Creamy white fur was streaked with red, and the poor creature's abdomen looked like something off a coroner's slab. "Ten to one this happened when he was trying to help the Mountie," Huey said quietly. There was no argument. They both knew it was true. 

 Detective Huey bent to gather him up, but Ray shook his head. "Let me." 

 Ray took off his coat, pushing aside all thoughts of how much it had cost as he gently wrapped the wounded animal in it. Ever so carefully, he eased the bundle into his arms, feeling the warm, sticky blood soaking through the fabric. Damn. The wolf was still bleeding. Ray set his jaw in determination as he headed down the stairs. 

 Diefenbaker was not going to die. Benny was not going to die. 

 He wouldn't let them.

 Carefully, Ray picked his way across the confusion gathered on the school's lawn, headed towards the Riv. Elaine would know of the nearest vet, and Dief sure as hell needed one of those. The wolf whined softly as he was settled into the back seat of the big car, and Ray couldn't help wincing slightly as he imagined having to get blood out of the upholstery. "Listen, you," he ordered, "stop bleeding this minute. I am not going to explain to that Mountie of yours why I let you bleed out in the back of the Riv." 

 He paused a moment, looking at the wounded animal. Diefenbaker could be annoying as hell sometimes, and he'd stolen enough donuts to feed an entire army of cops, but he wasn't so bad, really. Kind of like Benny. You just got used to him, and then...the thought of either of them just not being there anymore was unfathomable. 

 Shaking his head to dispel thoughts of RCMP funerals, Ray grabbed his keys out of his pocket and opened the driver's side door. He was stopped, awkwardly half-in-half-out of the car, by the sound of someone calling his name. It was a young female medic, the name "C. Showalter" clearly printed on her name tag. 

 "Detective Vecchio?" 

 "Yeah, that's me." Diefenbaker whined again, and Ray drummed his fingers impatiently, shooting an annoyed glare at the girl. "Whaddya need?" 

 "I'm Paramedic Showalter. Your friend is in serious condition. He has a severe head injury and we think he has some possible neck injuries. He looks pretty banged up right now." The medic's blue eyes were calm as she looked at Ray, but it was the color, not the expression that bothered the Detective. Blue eyes. They send someone over to tell me my best friend is dying, and she's got Benny's eyes. Ray tried to look over the medic, but she somehow managed to stay in his way in spite of the fact she was a foot shorter than he was.

 "Detective," she said quietly, "the Mountie..."

 "His name's Benton. Benton Fraser." Ray said it perhaps a bit more sharply than he might have otherwise, but he didn't care. He had every right to snap. 

 "Benton. He's...well, he's not quite himself, Detective. You need to be prepared for that. Patients with head injuries often display emotional shifts that don't seem anything like -" She was cut off as a struggle suddenly erupted from where the paramedics were preparing to load Benny into the ambulance. Ray abruptly forgot courtesy and shoved past Showalter, hurrying over. 

 His jaw dropped as the sight before him literally stopped him dead in his tracks. Benny was strapped down, thick bands of nylon webbing holding him to a backboard as his head and neck were immobilized in a blocky foam structure. His eyes were wide and disoriented, like a child's, and his entire face resembled a mummy, swathed in gauze. The uniform he prized so highly had been cut away and stuffed in a bag somewhere, only a blanket covering him. An IV line snaked into one arm, and one of the medics was busily taping that down so that the Mountie's struggles would not dislodge the vital lifeline. 

 Showalter was at Ray's side again. "Detective, you shove me out of the way again and I will deck you, got it?" Ray turned to answer the medic, but at that moment, Fraser started screaming incoherently. 

 Ray started and looked back at his best friend. This wasn't the man he knew. This wasn't his friend. This wasn't Benny. Benny wouldn't do this. Benny wouldn't be screaming uncontrollably. Benny wouldn't let them cut his uniform off and tie him down like that. Ray took a step back, his mind reeling. No, that wasn't Benny. 

 He looked down at the paramedic to tell her that she had made a mistake. As he started to speak, he saw something else in Showalter's eyes. Compassion? She put a hand on Ray's arm. "Talk to him. He might recognize your voice."

 "I can't." Ray replied, "That's not...I mean, he wouldn't lose control like this. You just don't know him." the screams seemed thankfully to be fading again. Wait. Was that good? Was it bad? Ray didn't want to look, afraid of what he might see. 

 Showalter took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Detective...Ray, listen to me. This is your friend over here. He is the same guy he was an hour ago. He's just hurt and scared. Now, I am not going to make you talk to him. But I think it would really help both him and you, okay?" At Ray's shaky nod of affirmation, she gently took him by the arm and walked him over to the Mountie. 

 Taking a deep breath, he leaned over his friend, looking down on a man who, though completely opposite in every conceivable way, was like a brother to him. "Hey, Benny." 

 The Mountie's eyes darted wildly, then a small smile quirked his lips. For a moment, Ray felt a surge of relief, then Fraser spoke. "Dad? You're back!" He struggled to sit up, clearly seeing the image of his father standing approximately where Ray was. Inadvertently, the cop glanced around. Obviously, there were no other Mounties to be found. Dead or otherwise. 

 "Naw, Benny, it's me. Ray. Ray Vecchio. The guy who's gonna stick you with the bill for cleaning your wolf's guts off my Riv when we get done with this mess." He forced a light chuckle. "Geez...what is it with you and windows?" 

 The strange smile vanished from the bandaged face, and fear appeared in his eyes. "Window?" 

 "Window. You and the kid fell out the window." 

 Now his eyes became panicked, and he began to fight more furiously against his restraints, issuing an incoherent stream of protest. Ray caught the occasional "no" and "lemme go", but most of it seemed to be something strange about flying otters, gasoline, boomerangs, and a Stetson with the back cut off. One of the EMTs looked up at the cop, and he shrugged. "He's Canadian." 

 "Oh." 

 They started to lift Benny into the back of the waiting ambulance, and Ray forced himself to turn away from his ranting friend. If the guy was going to die, that was not the way Ray wanted to remember him. He wanted to remember him as the guy he sometimes thought was insane, like when he sniffed dog piddle or smeared himself with meat. Not as someone who actually was insane because he'd played hero one too many times. 

 He had taken only one step away when he heard it. Benny's voice was crystal clear, the word perfectly enunciated. "Ray?" 

 Quickly turning, he saw the doors of the ambulance beginning to close, and he quickly shouted back, hoping he could still be heard. "Yeah?"

 "Dief." Ray didn't think he'd ever heard such complexity in the tone of a single word. It was an expression of thanks and love towards the animal himself, of concern for his injuries, and hope for his recovery. At the same time it had seemed to demand something. Benny had been handing Dief over to him. 

 Ray felt his throat constrict, and he sprinted back towards the Riv, keys jamming into the ignition as he hurled himself into the driver's seat. The tires screeched as he pulled out of the school parking lot, leaving twin streaks of rubber on the asphalt. He grabbed up the microphone, thumbing down the key. "Elaine, where's the best vet in this city?"

 The voice of Elaine Besbriss was rather confused. "You want a _vet_ , Vecchio?" 

 "Vet. V. E. T." The detective bit off the letters sharply, aware that the wolf hadn't made a single sound since they'd left. 

 "Why would you..." She paused, then he heard her gasp. "Dief!" 

 "Yeah. He and Benny were involved in that highschool shooting that just went down."

 "Oh my God! Is Fraser--?"

 "He's gonna be fine. Now where's the vet, Elaine?!" 

 "I'm getting it as fast as I can!" Within moments, she had the address, and Ray was relieved to hear it was actually quite close. 

 In less than five minutes, Ray had pulled up in front of the clinic, abandoning the Riv without a second thought to carry the injured animal into the office. Panting slightly, he hurried up the steps. "You have gotta lay off the donuts" he commented, reaching out with one elbow to hook the door open, "you're getting heavy!" 

 Almost the moment they cleared the door, they were descended upon by veterinarians. The first, a rather chubby gentleman in his late forties, looked up at Ray through thick glasses. "This is the deaf police wolf they called us about?" 

 "Yeah. I think he's been stabbed." 

 "You think?" 

 "I wasn't there, okay? The guy who owns this wolf is on his way to the hospital. I'm taking care of the wolf. Capiche?" Diefenbaker had already been transferred to a smaller version of the gurney that had carried Benny off. Ray fought the urge to follow it as it was wheeled further into the clinic by two young assistants. With a deep sigh, Ray turned back to the heavyset vet. "Look, if you need me for something...for anything, here's my number." He fished a wadded scrap of paper from one pocket, the vet wordlessly supplying a pen. "I've got to go to the hospital and check on Be - on his owner - and I've got to tell..." His eyes widened, "Oh God, I've got to tell Frannie!" 

***

 Ray pulled into his driveway like a whirlwind, throwing open the car door almost before it had come to a complete stop. He didn't want to do this, but he knew he didn't have a choice. It really wouldn't be fair for them to read it all in the papers. Especially since Ray had been on enough cases to know that the papers didn't always print the truth...they printed the truth through the eyes of the reporter. 

 Tony was asleep on the porch, a newspaper draped over his face, and Ray kicked the lawn chair that the other man was laying on, startling him awake. "What the hell -- " Tony cried in alarm, then was cut short as Ray tossed him the keys of the Riv. 

 "There's blood in the car. Get it cleaned up." 

 "But Ray -- " 

 The detective didn't stop a moment as he stormed across the porch and into the house. "Just get it done!" 

 Slamming the front door behind him, Ray hurried towards the stairs. He couldn't let Ma or Frannie see him like this...not all disheveled and covered in blood. He'd take a quick shower, grab a clean suit, then go down and tell them what had happened. It would all be very neat and professional, like they were someone else's family. 

 Ray quickly went up the staircase and down the hall, but he failed to look where he was going as he rounded the corner. Something hit him hard in the stomach, winding him and knocking him back. Startled, he looked up, only to find Frannie standing there with a basket of laundry in her hands. He had hit the edge of the basket, and a little of the moist blood had tinted the wicker a dull red. Frannie's dark eyes flew wide, and she dropped the laundry as her hands went to her mouth. 

 Seeing what was about to happen, Ray jumped up, grabbing her and shoving a hand over her mouth in time to prevent her scream from being any more than a small squeak. Her Mountie-red fingernails dug into his arm as she tried to pry his hand away, but he didn't care. Abandoning the laundry, he pulled his sister into the bedroom and shut the door with his foot. 

 Twisting so that he could look her straight in the eyes, Ray kept his hand firmly over her mouth. "Number one," he said firmly, "this is not my blood. This is Deif's blood, but he's at a vet now. He'll be fine. Number two, there's been a shooting at a highschool here in the city. Benny was there." Her carefully lined eyes grew even wider at that news, and Ray saw them begin to glisten with tears. "He wasn't shot," the cop amended quickly. "But he was hurt. He's at the hospital now. Number three -- and this is very important -- I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, but if you scream, or if you do anything else to upset Ma, I'll kill you. Understand?" 

 She nodded, and he slowly released her mouth. There was a moment of stunned silence, then she slowly asked, "Benton...he's not hurt badly, is he? I mean, he's gonna be all right." Her voice quavered, and Ray could see she was on the edge of an all-out breakdown. 

 "Nah," Ray forced a smile to his lips and an edge of levity to his voice, "he fell out a second-story window and landed on his head...which, as we all know, is the hardest part of Benny's body." 

 She slapped him. She slapped him hard and fast, leaving a livid red print on the side of his face. Her eyes blazed, and her compact body was trembling. "How dare you! How _dare_ you, Raymond Vecchio!" 

 "Hey," he protested, "I was just..."

 "I don't care what you were 'just'! Benton's hurt!! He's hurt badly, and I have to go see him! I've got to make sure he's not...that he won't...he can't..." Her shouted tirade collapsed into harsh sobs, and she fell forward into her brother's arms, crying uncontrollably. 

 Awkwardly, Ray wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back in a soothing circular motion. "It's okay, Frannie." His throat felt thick, and the words came only with difficulty as he comforted her. One should be able to protect one's kid sister from things, from all the ugliness in life. People like Benny shouldn't have to worry about getting smeared across Chicago. But if there was one lesson that life had taught Raymond Vecchio, it was that life was never fair. 

 ***

 "Hey, Ma!"

 Freshly showered and dressed in a clean suit, Ray stepped into the kitchen. The smells of red wine and basil enveloped him, and despite all that had happened, he grinned as he saw the tomatoes on the counter and the huge pot simmering on the stove. Ma was making fresh spaghetti sauce. 

 Ma Vecchio turned and smiled as she saw Ray and Frannie standing in the doorway. "Come in! Come in!" Her apron was splashed with the thick red sauce, and she reached for a brown paper bag sitting on the counter. "Raymondo," she instructed, handing him the bag, "take this to Benton. Poor thing...all alone in that terrible apartment." She waved a spoon for emphasis, and Frannie deftly sidestepped the flying sauce that sprayed off the utensil before it was returned to the pot. "Have you seen how skinny he is, Francesca? Poor man has nothing decent to eat. Did you know the other day he told me he ate caribou? Caribou! Do you know how many caribou there are in Chicago? Not one, cara mia! He's going to starve to death!" 

 The two younger Vecchios looked at one another awkwardly. Finally, Frannie took the initiative, grinding the stiletto heel of her shoe into Ray's toe. He yelped in pain and jumped back, and Ma looked over her shoulder from where she had been stirring the sauce. "Raymondo? Is something the matter?"

 Ray flashed an aggravated look at his sister, then forced what he hoped look like an innocent smile. At least, unlike the Mountie, he could tell a decent lie. "Nah. It's just...Frannie and I were actually on our way to see him right now anyway. Anything you wanted us to tell him for you?" 

 "Just to take care of himself!" The admonishment was accompanied by more gesticulating with the spoon, then she turned back to her work, humming cheerily. 

 Ray felt like something that crawled out of a dumpster as he headed out of the house. They were taking Frannie's car, the Riv currently having been taken by Tony for de-Deifing. As he opened the door, he caught his sister's eye, and his eyebrows shot up in indignation . "Hey! Whatcha looking at me like that for? You couldn't tell her either!" 

 Frannie's mouth opened, then shut. Finally, she just fastened her seat belt and pointed firmly out the windshield. "Hospital. Benton. _Now_." 

 "Yes, ma'am!" 

 ***

 Flashbulbs exploded the moment Ray opened the door of the car in the hospital parking lot. The media was there in force, reacting to the tragedy the way they usually did...by acting like a school of sharks after the sinking of a hemophiliac's cruise ship. 

 He wasn't surprised to see them, knowing that after being shooed off the scene of something bloody, the news hounds typically camped out at the hospital. Each TV channel, newspaper, and wire service wanted to be first to know who had lived and who would be worm food. The assault on the car didn't surprise him, either. The moment one reporter had spotted his face and recognized him from the scene, the man had waved his arm like someone spotting the fox on a hunt, and they had descended. 

 Ray ignored the popping of cameras and the jostling for position, tuning out the shouted questions with the practiced ear of a cop. He'd been on enough scenes that turned into media frenzies like this. He knew all you could do was keep your mouth shut, and although they wouldn't go away, they'd also have nothing to print that could get you in trouble. 

 Shoving his way around the car, he found Frannie still halfway in her seat. Her legs were swung out onto the pavement, but she was sitting and staring at the cameras with a childish fascination. Ray grabbed her arm and pulled her upright, still ignoring the reporter's questions. 

__

 "Do you know what happened in the -- ?"

 "Does the police department wish to make a statement about -- ?"

 "What was the relationship between you and the Mountie?"

 "Do you know when we'll be able to -- ?" 

 "Did the police department know anything about -- ?"

 "What kind of dog was -- ?"

 "What can you tell us about the Mountie?"

 To Ray's horror, he felt Frannie stop at the last question. Turning, he saw she was smiling at the cameras, clearly suffering the civilian condition of _camerus irresistablus_...the inability to pass up a chance at being on TV. Seeing an easy mark, the sharks closed in. 

 "Did you know the Mountie, Miss...?"

 "Vecchio. And yes, although not as well as I'd have liked to." She flashed a brief, wicked smile, but lowered her mascaraed eyelashes demurely. Several reporters chuckled, but the response was quickly immortalized on a thousand recording devices.

 "Miss Vecchio. Can you tell us a little about him?" 

 "Well, Benton...he's Canadian, you know? He does these things...kittens in trees, old ladies across streets. And he's got this way of being brilliant and clueless at the same time that's really quite - _Ray_!" The last word was a squawk of protest as her brother almost ripped her arm out of the socket, dragging her away from her fifteen minutes of fame. 

 The moment they reached the relative quiet of the hospital, Ray whirled on her, grabbing her by both shoulders and fighting the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. "What the hell were you thinking out there?! Didn't I tell you back in the car to keep your mouth shut?!"

 "It wasn't as if they were asking for state secrets!", she protested, wrenching away from his grasp. Primly, she smoothed her wrinkled shoulders. "They just wanted to know a little about Benton." 

 "Yeah. And now they've got 'a little about Benton'! You gave them enough that any first grader could twist it!" Ray stopped, forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath. Frannie really hadn't known any better. She'd never been on cases where something as simple as telling the media the suspect's name had been turned into 'the police think he's guilty'. She'd never watched a hapless witness filleted by the papers until they were unusable in court. She didn't know. It was too late to tell her now. 

 Ray sighed and began to move resignedly across the lobby towards the desk. "At least you didn't tell them the bit about the squirrel. But don't let it happen again, okay?"

 "Okay!" Frannie snapped the word sharply, her cheeks gaining a redness that owed nothing to cosmetics. 

 As they moved through the drunks, patient's family members, and street people that crowded the lobby, Ray heard a familiar voice begin to rise above the babble. He stopped, looking upward as if the fluorescent lights would offer him strength to deal with this. This really shouldn't come as a surprise. After all, no matter how much he personally wished she would go back where she came from and get eaten by something, Inspector Margaret Thatcher was Benny's direct superior. 

 She leaned over the receptionist's desk in full, outraged glory, more than earning her nickname 'The Dragon Lady.' "Listen," Thatcher growled, "Constable Fraser is an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As such, he falls under my authority and responsibility. And I demand to see him!" 

 Any mortal human being would have turned to ashes beneath the Inspector's blazing stare, but the receptionist had worked there long enough to have been petrified by the hospital coffee. "Look, lady," she explained, pointing a brightly manicured fingernail at Thatcher, "I don't care if you're an Inspector, an Inquisitor, or the Pope himself. No one's getting in until the Doc's let them in. Now, if you want, I can ring them for you."

 "Do that." 

 With a martyred sigh, she tapped down a button on the phone. "Cheryl, how long before the Mountie can have visitors?" 

 The voice that responded bore the distinctive nasal intonation that spoke of a Brooklyn upbringing. "He's in OR right now...five hours minimum."

 "Thanks. Say, how's Donald?"

 "Pain in the ass, as usual. Thanks for asking." 

 Deactivating the line, the receptionist looked back at Thatcher, "Five hours. He's in surgery now. If you want, there's private waiting rooms through that door." Nodding a curt thank you, Thatcher started towards the door, but the receptionist's voice stopped her. 

 "Inspector!"

 Thatcher turned, a quizzical expression on her face, and the receptionist smiled. "Don't blame you for being so eager about this...word has it that he's absolutely darling. A real heart-breaker." 

 Ray grinned as the Dragon Lady turned almost the same color as a Mountie tunic. He nodded his head towards the door to the waiting rooms. "You heard the lady, Frannie. Five hours. I don't know about you, but I've got no intention of waiting around in this zoo." 

 ***

 The waiting room was small but comfortable. Several well-cushioned chairs sat at intervals around the room, and a couch was also provided, old and slightly sagging, but still good enough. Magazines were scattered over the coffee tables and stacked in little bins on the sides, the newest among them a dog-eared six months old. A television was suspended in one corner near the ceiling, the screen displaying a teary-eyed starlet on a muted soap opera. Vending machines dispensing coffee, soft drinks, and snacks hummed quietly, their soft sound almost deafening in the quiet room.

 Ray sat stiffly on the edge of one of the seats, thumbing through a copy of _Field And Stream_ from 1990. He couldn't force himself to feign interest in the outdated adds for fishing flies and deer musk, and he soon dropped it again. This was maddening. There was nothing to do but wait, and waiting was something he wasn't very good at under the best of circumstances. 

 This was not the best of circumstances. He was stuck in this damned sterile waiting room, and he couldn't even pace, kick the vending machines, or rain down curses on the young punk that had done this to his friend in the first place. It wasn't that Frannie was there. Hell, the Vecchio clan regularly attempted to one-up each other in displays of temper. It was the Dragon Lady.

 She had chosen one of the two hard plastic chairs in the room, and she sat in it as stiffly as if she was on guard in front of the Consulate. Her hazel eyes never wavered from Vecchio, and something in her cold stare was intensely unnerving. It was as if she blamed him. 

 After five minutes, Ray's resolve cracked. He got to his feet, fumbling around in his pockets and muttering something about having to make some phone calls. It was true, wasn't it? It wasn't like he was making an excuse to get out of there or anything. He just had to call the vet and check on Dief, and he had to call Ma. With a wait of five hours just to see Benny, there was no way that he was going to be able to maintain the ruse. 

 Quickly locating a pay phone in a niche about ten meters down the hall, Ray slipped a quarter into the slot and dialed the number of the veterinary clinic. A young girl answered, sounding almost as tired as Ray felt. "Pet Keepers Animal Hospital, Joanna speaking. How may I help you?"

 "Yeah, this is Detective Vecchio, Chicago PD. I brought in a wolf about an hour and a half ago. Name was Diefenbaker. How's he doing?" 

 There was a short pause, and Ray could hear her talking with someone on the other end. Then a man's voice came on, the voice of the heavyset vet he'd given his phone number to. "Detective Vecchio...I was just about to call you. I've examined your wolf, and I'm not going to lie to you. His condition is very, very serious. The stab wound has perforated the peritoneum and incised a section of bowel. We're looking at a very painful injury with a high probability of infection. You might want to consider having him put to sleep." 

 Ray stared at the receiver in disbelief. Put Diefenbaker to sleep? The wolf was the only living thing Benny had left in the world. He'd never be able to look his friend in the eye if he did that. His expression darkened, and he nearly deafened the poor vet with his reply. "Like hell I will! Listen, buddy, you are _not_ giving up on that animal. I don't care what you have to do! Surgery, experimental drugs...shit, even call in a witch doctor if you think it will help. I'm sure his owner could recommend several reputable Inuit ones! But do not, and I repeat, _do not_ kill that wolf, or your ass is _mine_!" 

 He slammed down the receiver, causing a nearby nurse to nearly leap out of her tennis shoes at the loud crash. Ray didn't care. "Damn it!," he hissed, clenching his fists until even his practically non-existent clipped fingernails were cutting deeply into the skin of his palms. "The son of a bitch!" Ray sagged back against the wall, trying to pull himself together enough to call Ma.

 Call Ma.

 "And say what?," he queried aloud. "Hey, Ma, how's the spaghetti sauce? Oh, by the way, Benny's in surgery at the hospital, and Diefenbaker might have to be put to sleep. I'm afraid I'll have to be a little late for dinner." No, he'd definitely need to rephrase that.

 Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Ray dialed the seven digits, then waited as the phone rang. Ma answered cheerily, "Vecchio residence...what can I do for you?" 

 "Ma..."

 "Raymondo! How's Benton? Is Francesca behaving herself?"

 Ray felt something cold and slimy seem to slither through him, and his voice cracked as he spoke, despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "Ma, there's something I have to tell you."

 *** 

__
    
    
    "Ave Maria, madre di Dio,
    Prega per noi peccatori.
    Adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte..."

__

 Ma Vecchio's weathered hands ran over the beads of her rosary for the thousandth time, the familiar prayers chanted in her warmly accented voice. There was something comforting about it to Ray, and right now, he wasn't afraid to admit that comfort was something he could use a little of. It had been three hours since he had gone to get Ma and there had still been no word on Benny.

 Giving up on what the Dragon Lady thought, he stood and began to pace. Three steps to the soda machine, six to the door. Nine steps back. Frannie had gone through another crying session with Ma, but now she was curled on the swaybacked couch, fast asleep. He wished he could do that, but despite the exhausting day, he was wide awake.

 He cast another quick glance at Thatcher. She was still sitting in that hard plastic chair, her posture still ramrod straight. The only concession she had made to the passage of time was to pick up an old People magazine. The issue sat open on her lap, but Ray noted that she hadn't turned a page in half an hour. He wondered how she could do it, how she could be so cold, so -- 

 "Hello, my name is Doctor McCormick."

 Ray whirled, only to nearly collide with a man who had just entered the room. He was in his early forties, tall and thin, with red hair that was all but gone. Green surgical scrubs draped awkwardly off his bony frame, but his smile was warm and genuine. Hearing him enter, Frannie sat up, blinking drowsily, and Ma clutched her rosary tighter, worry etched on her round features. 

 The Doctor's eyes wandered questioningly over the group. "Are you here with Mr. Fraser?" 

 Thatcher stood, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles out of her light gray suit's skirt. "Inspector Thatcher, RCMP. I'm the Constable's commanding officer. How is he?" 

 McCormick pulled one of the chairs towards the center of the room, sitting where he could look at all of them. "I've got good news and bad news regarding his condition. Which would you like to hear first?"

 "Bad news!", Frannie blurted. 

 "Bad news it is. Constable Fraser has suffered an intercranial hemorrhage. That's when a blow to the head causes bleeding inside the brain. There's not much we can do for that surgically, but we've inserted something into his head called an ICP bolt. It's a device that measures the pressure of the fluids inside the brain, and it will allow us to follow his condition. We've also had to use drugs known as barbiturates to induce an artificial coma as well as temporary artificial paralysis. That will give his brain a chance to heal." His tone was gentle, but that didn't lessen the effect of the words. 

 Ray licked his lips, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara in August. "What's his prognosis, Doc?"

 "He's very, very badly hurt. We still know very little about the brain, so I can't give you exact figures, but based on my experience, I'd say he's got maybe a fifty-fifty shot at surviving this. Maybe a ten percent shot at surviving it without any permanent brain damage or loss of function. There is almost guaranteed memory loss. How much, I can't say. Maybe hours, maybe days...maybe years. I'm sorry." He tried a soothing smile. "But from the looks of the scars I saw on the rest of his body, your friend's a very lucky guy. He might have a chance at pulling through yet." 
    
    
    There was a long
    silence, then suddenly, Ma stood up.  Her dark eyes were bright with
    tears as she pointed a shaking finger at the Doctor. "Benton non è
    solo un amico!",  she shouted, the force of her emotions causing her
    to revert to her native Italian.  "E' uno di famiglia...un fratello,
    un figlio!  La Madonna si prenderà cura di lui, perchè
    io sto pregando per lui come se fosse mio figlio. Benton non morirà!" 

McCormick's expression was compassionate, but confused. "What did she say?"

 Frannie's voice was trembling as she translated. "She says that Benton isn't just a friend. He's one of the family...a brother or a son. She says that the Holy Mother will watch him, because she has been praying for him like one of her own children. She says that he will not die." 

 The Doctor smiled again and reached out, gently patting Ma on the knee. "I'm glad to hear you're praying for him, Mrs. Vecchio. It certainly wouldn't hurt him to have a few angels on his side." 

 "What about the good news?" Thatcher interrupted, "You said there was some of that." 

 "Yes, there is," McCormick agreed, "for one thing, we couldn't ask for a better baseline to work from. He's young and strong, in excellent physical health. The scars we saw indicate remarkable healing capacity. Also, the bleed doesn't seem to be spreading, nor is it near a major artery. We think it has a good chance of healing on it's own. He's shown responses to stimulus and good reflex action all the way down to the tips of his toes. We doubt there will be any paralysis." 

 Ray leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "When do we get to see him?"

 "About two hours. He's recovering from having the ICP put in right now, and we need a while to get a baseline for it's readings. I suggest you go to his house or apartment and gather a few personal items. It will probably be a while before he wakes up, but it's good for a patient to have something familiar when he does."

 Almost as if choreographed, Ray and Thatcher announced, "I'll go." It was in perfect unison, and as one, they turned to glare at each other. 

 "I'm his best friend." Ray pointed out.

 "And I'm his CO."

 "Why don't you both go?" Ray nearly choked as Ma made the suggestion, although the tone of her voice indicated that it was more an order than anything else. He tried to come up with a reason to refuse, but he wasn't about to back down, and _'I can barely stand to occupy the same planet as that woman'_ would sound rather petty. 

 He could see that Thatcher wasn't exactly thrilled with the prospect either, but was having just as much problem coming up with a sensible way to refuse. In the end, they both went.

 ***

 After again running the gauntlet of press assembled on the front walk of the hospital, the ride to Benny's apartment had been an exercise in tense silence. Thatcher seemed to truly enjoy Ray's discomfort, and he thought he had caught a glimpse of an evil smile playing about her lips once or twice. He could have sworn it was there, but the expression vanished like a mirage if he turned to look at her. 

 Now, as they pulled up in front of Benny's apartment building, Ray couldn't contain a grin of perverse pleasure as he saw Thatcher's expression. This was no mirage. Her eyes were wide as she looked at the dilapidated construction. "Constable Fraser lives _here_?" The Inspector's voice was incredulous and a little angry, as though she expected the tall Italian to be playing a joke on her. 

 Ray gave her an innocent look. "You don't know where your Mounties are? I mean when they aren't being doormen or picking up laundry, of course." 

 That comment seemed to hit home, and Thatcher quickly looked away, opening the car door and striding quickly towards the building. Ray cursed under his breath as he jogged after her, wondering how she managed to move so fast in those heels. 

 They reached the bottom of the stairwell at about the same time, and he noticed that she was carefully avoiding actually having to touch the flaking, dirty paint of the railing. Or anything else for that matter. She looked up the stairs. "Which one is his?"

 "Three J." Ray deliberately crunched his shoe onto a cockroach, making sure that she noted the insect's demise. 

 She shuddered slightly, then noticed the pleasure dancing in the Detective's eyes. Something in her own expression hardened, and her posture stiffened. Looking at Ray with a slight, defiant smile, she took firm hold of the railing and started up the stairs. Thatcher moved quickly, and they soon reached the third floor. The hallway stretched in front of them, and Ray pointed to the correct door. "That one's his."

 "Do you have the key, Mr. Vecchio?"

 "Don't need one. He never locks it." 

 This clearly caught the Inspector by surprise. "In this neighborhood? What about --"

 "Thieves?" Ray finished. He opened the door to the Mountie's apartment, waving a hand around the spartan interior. "Nah. What would they take?" 

 Thatcher's jaw did not literally drop, but it was close. Slowly, as if in a trance, she moved around the sparse apartment. Opening one of the kitchen cabinets, she withdrew the metal plate from his mess kit, turning it over in her hands. "I know the RCMP doesn't exactly pay millions, but surely he can afford..." 

 Ray shrugged. "I know. I don't have a clue why he camps out like this instead of getting a decent place. Figured it was just one of those Canadian things." 

 "It's not a Canadian thing, Detective. Not everything Benton Fraser does can be explained by 'it's a Canadian thing.'" Her voice was cold, reproachful. Almost harshly, she pushed the plate back into the cupboard and closed the door, turning to face the rest of the apartment. "So we need to bring back something. Something special." Her hazel eyes scanned the room, then she went and picked something up in one corner. "Not much here...how about this?" 

 It was Deif's dish. A flush of anger went through the Detective, and he reached out, snatching it away from her almost savagely. "No." Carefully, he replaced the bowl exactly where it had been, noticing how the interior was clean enough to have been sterilized. He almost laughed \- knowing Benny, he might well have done exactly that. Ray ran a finger over the edge of the bowl. On the other hand, it was quite possible Dief had licked it that clean. The wolf had an appetite that 'insatiable' wouldn't even begin to cover. 

 Ray went to stand, but something white caught his eye. It was a small cluster of hair, trapped by a splinter on the wooden wall. Dief probably hadn't even felt the snag through his thick coat, leaving the little clump of fur there as casually as he shed over everything else. Impulsively, Ray took out his wallet, tucking the tuft of white in one of the smaller slots. He'd have Frannie put a ribbon or something to keep it all together, then he'd give it to Benny. At least he'd be able to have a little bit of the wolf with him. 

 He closed his eyes for a moment, a memory surging to the surface with unexpected intensity. Diefenbaker, running across a field that was sparsely patched with snow. He had been chasing after his American girlfriend, a husky named Maggie. Fraser had raised his father's rifle, thinking he was going to have to shoot his friend. He remembered the pain in the blue eyes, but how the barrel of the rifle had never wavered. Benny was an expert marksman...he would have killed Dief with the first shot. But at what cost?

 "Vecchio?" Thatcher's voice invaded on his thoughts, and he turned, hoping that his face didn't betray his emotions. 

 "What?" 

 "What about this?" Seeing what she was holding, Ray smiled. Benny's other red uniform hung neatly from its hanger. The shoulders were squared, every crease perfectly pressed, the bright fabric almost glowing in the plain surroundings. The brass buttons were brightly polished, the dark blue trousers with their yellow stripe neatly draped over a second hanger. The care bestowed upon the uniform was obvious, and Ray knew how much it meant to his friend. It was a symbol of everything he believed in, everything he stood for. 

 "Perfect." 

 ***

 "Oh my God!" Frannie's voice choked off, and she turned away from the doorway, burying her head in her brother's shoulder. Thatcher looked like a stone statue of an RCMP Inspector, her face alarmingly white although there was no other sign of emotion visible. Ma had rushed to his side, stroking his hand as she crooned something soft and maternal.

 Ray could only stand and look.

 He remembered someone he had accused of being Scotchguarded at birth, who could slither through a sewer and come out neat as a pin. He remembered a man who had a wide-eyed innocent look that seemed half genuine naiveté, and half boyish mischief. He remembered a man who knew facts too obscure for the encyclopedia Brittanica, and could track men by the dirt on their shoes. 

 He remembered a man who was annoyingly healthy. A guy who could eat mud and never get sick, who could chase a criminal on foot for hours and hardly be winded. Someone who could climb, dangle, and contort himself like a circus acrobat.

 The figure before him was a pale shadow of that man. 

 Benny lay in the hospital bed, his body paralyzed and his mind locked in the secret purgatory of a coma. A quarter-sized patch of his dark hair had been shaven off, the ICP bolt protruding from his scalp and ringed by a cluster of spider-like stitches. It looked perversely like the pop-up timers that came on Thanksgiving turkeys. A long wire lead trailed up from the implant, tracing a path to a small machine that faithfully recorded everything occurring within Benny's skull. More machines were affixed to the patches of the EKG monitors on his chest, and an IV line trailed into his arm, with a second one affixed right above the hollow of his collarbone. A thick tube of transparent plastic was secured over his mouth, allowing a respirator to artificially inflate his lungs in a steady, hissing rhythm. 

 Only the blanket covered him, and the bare skin of his chest and arms was as white as the crisp sheets he lay on. His face was similarly ashen, causing the crusted abrasions and cuts that crossed his boyish features to stand out in brutal contrast. His eyes were closed, his expression strangely peaceful. Ray wondered if people dreamed in comas. There was no movement of the blue eyes under the closed lids, no fluttering of the dark eyelashes, but still he wondered.

 Frannie still clutched his arm tightly as Ray stepped further into the hospital room. Her tears had caused her mascara to run in dark streaks almost all the way down to her chin, but Ray didn't find it amusing as he usually would have. As he approached the Mountie's bed, it was as if the entire world dropped away, leaving only him and his best friend. 

 Friend. No, Ma had been right. Benny had stopped being a mere family friend long ago. He was a brother. Ray settled into one of the chairs at the side of the bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Hey, Benny," he said conversationally, "you look rotten." Ray paused, half-hoping that Benny would open his eyes and point out that he was not decomposing, and thus, 'you look rotten' was technically not true. 

 There was nothing at all. 

 ***

 Ray felt like a complete coward as he parked in front of the 27th precinct. He'd run out on them. Only five minutes in the same room as...as...God, he couldn't even think of that thing as Fraser! Only five minutes, and he'd chickened out, leaving Ma and Frannie to sit with the injured Mountie while he cooked up some lame excuse about paperwork. 

 His only consolation had been that Thatcher had lasted even less time than he had. She had stayed there only long enough to collect Benny's personal effects from the Doctor, then she had left, offering an even lamer excuse about calling someone in Ottawa. 

 Climbing out of the car, Ray reminded himself that there actually was a lot of paperwork to do. Three kids had been killed and eleven others wounded before Benny had intervened, and the investigation was just beginning. Reports would have to be written, passed on, archived, re-written, edited, and signed. Evidence would have to be examined and cataloged. Witnesses would have to be interviewed. It was enough work to keep the entire Chicago police department busy for a thousand lifetimes.

 Surely that would be enough to keep one cop busy while a Mountie fought for his life?

 Wouldn't it? 

 Ray checked his reflection in the car window before he closed the door. Everything seemed to be in place. No one should be able to tell where he'd been or what he'd been doing. Good. It was none of their business.

 "Hey, guys, how's it coming with the --" He walked into the bullpen, shouting to make himself heard over the noise that always pervaded the busy area. His words died as he realized that it was strangely quiet. No one was saying a word, every eye fastened on the TV in the corner of the bullpen. At his brusque entrance, they all turned to look at him as he stood in the doorway, feeling hideously awkward. The mood was somber, and he was stricken with the feeling that he had walked in on someone's last rights. 

 The only sound was the voice of a news anchor, his tone simultaneously proud and sorrowful. It was the 'fallen hero' voice that no cop likes to hear. "... _visible through an upper window. Even as SWAT teams were taking up position to enter the building, an individual who appears to have been a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the gunman. We have taped footage of this event, brought to you by our own News 10 On The Scene mobile camera crew. We warn you, this segment may be inappropriate for children._ " 

 Ray watched numbly as the news room quickly switched to a segment of film obviously shot by a hand-held camera. Even with the shaky image and occasionally blurry focus, the two figures were clearly visible, Benny's bright red tunic contrasting with the boy's fatigues. As the anchorman narrated, Ray watched again as the Mountie abruptly pitched forward, seeming to trip or slide on something and crashing into the glass. Played in slow-motion, it actually seemed as though the window would withstand the impact for a moment. Then a spider's web of lines appeared, and the large pane shattered. Benny fell through, and Ray dimly heard the anchorman express wonder at how even then, he never let the suspect go. 

 Then they hit. With the slowed footage, it was clear that the youth's head had struck first, slamming into the concrete from behind. His skull flattened slightly under the force of the blow, blood exploding in a starburst beneath him, and Ray knew at that moment that there was no way the gunman could have survived. 

 Benny followed a fraction of a second later. His shoulder impacted only a millisecond before the brim of the Stetson was crushed, the side of his head smashing into the basketball court, his face skidding on the harsh surface. Only a heartbeat of time passed, seeming to last an eon, then miraculously, Benny seemed to rally himself from the devastating impact. He pushed up on his forearms as if to rise, then his strength deserted him and he sagged back to the concrete, rolling almost lazily away from the boy's body to lie on his back. 

 The camera moved in on the scene, and Elaine turned away. Tears pouring down her dark cheeks as she covered her mouth with her hands, clearly fighting back a wave of nausea. Ray heard Gardino gasp in shock, and even Welsh seemed to pale at the sight. Then the segment ended, and it was back to the inane words of the anchorman praising the mystery Mountie's heroism. 

 Welsh reached forward and turned off the set. There was a moment of complete silence, then the air seemed to explode with sound. Some were expressing their disgust with the media, with their insistence on showing tragedy with slow motion and living color. A few others were speculating on what was going to happen now, or why the kid had committed such a heinous crime in the first place. Most of the officers there were asking questions, and most of those questions were directed at Detective Raymond Vecchio. 

 "Have you seen him, Ray?"

 "Hey, Vecchio, is the Mountie gonna be okay?"

 "Is he still alive?"

 "Damn, I bet Canada's going ape over this one! Have you talked to the Dragon Lady yet?"

 "When's Fraser getting out of the hospital?"

 "Do they think he'll come out of this in one piece?"

 "Was Fraser awake?" 

 The babble of voices reminded Ray of the reporters that had gone after he and Frannie outside the hospital, and he felt a boiling rage beginning to build inside him. "Okay!" He roared the word at the top of his lungs, managing to silence the onslaught. "I went to see Benny," he acknowledged. Ray was aware that he was still shouting, and that Welsh was looking at him in a very dangerous way, but he didn't care. "The Docs had to put him in a coma...he's bleeding inside his brain. They say he's got a fifty-fifty chance of making it." His voice dropped suddenly as his throat suddenly felt thick. "Ninety percent chance there's going to be permanent damage. That's all."

 Ray took advantage of the stunned silence to grab a handful of papers off his desk and start towards one of the interrogation rooms. He was still several steps away from the door when the spell broke and complete bedlam erupted. He could hear Welsh and several others calling his name, but he ignored them as he left the bullpen and went into the nearest interrogation room. Locking the door behind him, he dropped the papers on the desk and began to work. 

 ***

THE NEXT MORNING

DAY TWO

***

 The knock came again. Ray had ignored it the first several times, but now he hauled himself up from the chair, feeling his joints pop. He winced. _How long have I been here? Two hours? Three?_

 Opening the door of the interrogation room, he saw Elaine standing there with a slightly bemused expression and a cup of coffee. "Good morning, Detective." 

 "Morning?" 

 "Six thirty, to be exact. You've been in there all night." Startled, Ray looked at his watch. She was right! Taking the coffee, he drank most of the cup in one gulp and making a face at the taste. His expression prompted a smile from Elaine. "Something wrong with the standard swill, Vecchio?" 

 "Revolting as usual, thank you." He handed her the empty styrofoam cup, running one hand through his thinning, close-cropped hair. 

 She turned as if to go, then stopped. "Ray...."

 "Yeah?" 

 "I'm...Huey is...we're all..." She licked her lips, looking down as if suddenly fascinated with the laces of her shoes. "We were wondering if there was anything we could do for Fraser." 

 Ray shook his head. "The Doctors said either he lives or he doesn't. There's nothing anyone can do to help. But if you want to go see him, they say that he can have people there twenty-four hours a day if they want to come." 

 Elaine smiled. "I think I will, Vecchio. Thanks." Tossing the cup into a nearby trash can, she headed back to the bullpen. He watched her go, then turned back and picked up his coat from where he had draped it over a chair. Gathering up the files he had been working on, he tucked them under one arm, endeavoring to twist himself into the coat using only his teeth and other hand. Finally, he gave up, dropping the files back on the table until the coat was secured. 

 By six thirty-six he had given the files to Elaine for distribution, grabbed another cup of rotten coffee and two donuts, and ripped up the parking ticket he had found affixed to his windshield. He found that destroying the paper was surprisingly unsatisfying without a Mountie nearby to be scandalized by it, and for the first time in his life, resolved to actually pay the damned thing. Later. 

 He had learned from his experiences with the press the day before, so he drove Frannie's car to an alley a block from the hospital, parking it legally for Benny's sake. Ray mentally chastised himself as he strode towards the hospital, kicking at every leaf and bit of stray litter that he found along the way. How could he have been as stupid as to spend all night at the precinct? 

 Poor Ma and Frannie had been left in that cold hellhole of a hospital room, sitting with a man who looked for all practical purposes like a corpse. Ray only hoped that Frannie would show mercy on him when he finally did show up. True, she had hinted many times that she wanted to spend the night with Benny, but Ray had a feeling that she hadn't planned on him being in a coma. He chuckled at the thought of her showing off black lingerie to the Mountie's unconscious form, then his eye caught a flash of a familiar face as he passed a newsstand. 

 The headlines jumped out at him from a dozen magazines and newspapers. _"Mystery Mountie Stops Massacre", "Savior In Scarlet", "Unknown Hero Saves Schoolchildren", "Redcoat Rescue", "Deadly Shootout At Highschool Stopped", "Canadian Becomes American Hero"._ Ray smiled at the headlines...Benny would be the same color as his tunic right about now. 

 Photographs of Benny were emblazoned on every front page. Some were in color, some black and white, and they were taken from every conceivable angle. Ray noticed with detachment that the papers tended to favor dramatic shots of the fall from the window. The magazines preferred photos of him lying battered and bloody on the ground next to the young gunman. One magazine had even searched out an old photo from Fraser's RCMP file. The picture was black and white. From the blurry quality of the image, it was clearly taken from a group shot. Ray guessed it was his RCMP graduation photo, as Benny's youthful features looked downright babyish. He couldn't have been more than twenty-one at most, the very image of fresh-faced idealism. 

 Just like every other photo, it turned Ray's stomach. It was exploitation, pure, unadulterated exploitation. Benny was fighting merely to survive, and these people were using the image of his innocent face and the story of his courageous actions to sell their damned newspapers! Fighting back the urge to destroy the newsstand, he jammed his fists in his pockets and hurried on towards the hospital. 

 He managed to slip in unseen through a side door, and found both Ma and Frannie fast asleep in Benny's room. Much to his surprise, neither of them was angry at him, and he was eternally grateful for that fact as they walked back to the car. His feet felt like they were locked in lead boots, and despite the strong coffee, he had to fight to remain awake. Ray hadn't slept since the shooting, and the emotional and physical turmoil of the past 36 hours was beginning to weigh heavily on him. 

 It was only by the barest of margins that he managed to make his way home, and he hoped that Frannie and Ma would remember to call Welsh and tell him what had happened. Within thirty seconds of landing on the couch, Ray Vecchio was dead asleep. 

 ***

 Kate and Stuart Pittman were the image of suburban Americana. Comfortable but not wealthy, neat but not fastidious, they were the kind of Ozzie and Harriet people that the demographic just ate up. It was almost a shame that their son, Jason, had gone and shot up that school. 

 Francis Parker opened his notebook, making several brief notations about their behavior, their body language, and the white frame house they lived in. He knew the pundits back in the news station would have their opinions, but he still liked to keep his own notes. Parker was one of the few who still wrote in shorthand with pen and paper instead of pounding away at one of those tiny Japanese laptops. 

 "We aren't making excuses for him. What he did was so terribly, terribly wrong." Mrs. Pittman's voice trembled as she leaned close to the microphone, speaking loudly as though the multitudes of reporters gathered on her front lawn weren't straining for every whisper. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed, and she dabbed at them with a rumpled Kleenex. "I don't know why he would do such a thing...he never seemed like anything bothered him. He was so..." She stopped, her face contorting as she attempted to choke back sobs. 

 Her husband clutched her supportively. "We've gone over everything," Mr. Pittman confessed, "His room, his friends, his music. None of this makes sense. And we aren't asking you to forgive him. He killed Rebecca, Keith, and Emmanuel, and we express only the deepest remorse towards their families." Something about his manner seemed to stiffen, and he looked out at the cameras beseechingly. "But we lost a child, too. That's something no parent should have to suffer, and it's certainly something that shouldn't be ignored." 

 Having managed to regain some emotional control, Mrs. Pittman opened her purse and withdrew a folded piece of paper. As she opened it, Parker saw that it was the cover of _Time_ magazine, with the bloodied face of the Mountie printed above the words " _American Hero._ " Mrs. Pittman's eyes flashed with a moment of anger, and Parker leaned in closer, wondering if what he hoped for was actually going to happen. 

 "I've read a lot in the papers and magazines since Jason did...did what he did. And I've read a lot about this man, Constable Benton Fraser. You tell me that he's a brave man, that he should receive a medal or something for what he did." She took a deep breath and jammed the cover back in her purse. "I don't doubt he's a brave man, but he doesn't deserve any medals. Mr. Fraser killed my son." 

 A murmur went through the assembled reporters, and a thousand cell phones were flipped open, fingers poised to dial editors and TV stations as the hoard watched to see what would happen next. "I don't know everything about what happened," Mr. Pittman admitted, "And I think Kate may have been a little hasty in saying that Constable Fraser actively killed Jason. We've all seen the footage...that fall was clearly an accident. But it was an accident that never should have happened. Constable Fraser took it upon himself to enter that situation. I'm sure he had nothing but good intentions, but he's not a hostage negotiator. He's not a psychologist. He's not a SWAT team member. He knows nothing about dealing with troubled youth. He's not even an American police officer. And because he came charging to the rescue, he is now in critical condition in the hospital, and my child is dead." 

 It took every ounce of control that Francis Parker had developed over forty years of journalism not to jump up and down with excitement. This was it. This was perfect. It couldn't have been better if he had scripted it himself. 

 The story had seemed very simple. Kid shoots up school. Cop stops kid. Cop is hurt. Kid is dead. Then he had started doing research, and Constable Benton Fraser had started to smell decidedly fishy. Everyone who knew him said the same thing...that compared to Fraser, the Boy Scouts had the ethics of a Mafia godfather. He was trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. 

 He was hiding something. 

 Parker knew he had to be hiding something. He had to be hiding something deep and dark. Something so repugnant that he had been forced to concoct this saccharine exterior to keep it concealed. He had been certain of that fact from day one, but the station manager had laughed off his theories, calling him paranoid and reminding him that this was a Mountie, after all. Parker didn't care if he was the Pope, but the public did. 

 So he had read the copy touting the wonderful heroism of this courageous Canadian. He had smiled at every one of his co-worker's bad Dudley Do-Right jokes. He had waited. All that day and all this second morning, he had discreetly compiled information on this Mountie, waiting for the opportunity to blow his upright image to hell. 

 Now, thanks to Mr. And Mrs. Pittman, he had that chance. At six o'clock that night, on national television, Constable Benton Fraser would be shown for the scum he was. 

 ***

 He was startled awake by the sound of loud pounding. Jolting upright, he saw that she was pounding a wooden spoon viciously against the top of the television set, cursing at the top of her lungs in both Italian and English. Before he was even fully awake, Ray got to his feet, pulling the spoon away from her to protect the Sacred Shrine Of Broadcast Bulls Basketball. 

 "Hey! What do you think you are doing!" Ray waved the spoon at her reproachfully. "You could hurt it!"

 "How dare they!" Ma's eyes blazed in fury, but she was clearly on the verge of tears. "How dare they say that about Benton! _Bastardi_!" 

 Something cold gripped Ray's stomach, and he sank down onto the couch again, listening in growing disbelief as Ma explained the details of the press conference she had just watched. It had been held by Stuart and Kate Pittman, the parents of the young gunman. They had talked for almost a full hour. Ray wished he could have seen the full conference, but what Ma told him was more than enough. 

 Moaning softly, he sagged forward, burying his head in his hands. "Benny is in deep, deep shit."

 ***

 "Yes, Mrs. Pomputis....uh huh...we charge seventeen dollars for a three line ad...yes, that covers one week...yes, ma'am." Chad Howell clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened Word Processor on his PC. "I'll need exact phrasing." His fingers moved swiftly over the keys with the dictation, then he read it back. "Wanted to replace dearly departed pet, one Pekinese dog, female, must be affectionate and well-trained."

 His tone was efficient and courteous as he typed out the classified and pasted it to inter-office email. Chad assured the elderly woman that a replacement puppy would soon be scampering her way thanks to the remarkable powers of a newspaper classified add. "Thank you for placing your trust in the Chronicle, the paper for the people."

 The moment the email had been sent to the printer and Mrs. Pomputis dispatched, Chad pushed back from his desk, sending his chair rolling back to the far wall of the cubicle as he slung his feet up on his desk. A cheap pen twirled quickly between his fingers as he stared up at the ceiling. "This sucks." He announced it to no one in particular, then flipped the pen at the coffee cup by his computer. "This really, really sucks."

 He wasn't supposed to be here. Not here in the living hell of classified ads, blithely recording people selling and buying all manner of strange things. In the six months since he had graduated college, he had accepted ads for everything from eight dozen slightly used innertubes to a collection of books on the art of tatting. He had not covered one single real story.

 Chad wrinkled his nose in disgust, rolling the chair forward to pick the pen out of the stale coffee. "A", he muttered. "I graduate with a damned A average, and the Chronicle takes me...as a freaking secretary!!" It wasn't fair. He'd been the star reporter of his highschool paper, gotten the dirt on the prom queen's boob job and the wrestling captain's drug habit. He'd gone to college and gotten his degree in journalism. He'd even landed a job at one of Chicago's biggest newspapers...things should have been falling into place for him.

 Instead, he had been relegated to the classifieds section, tucked away from the bright lights of the front page and the big stories. They had called it an internship. Chad called it indentured servitude. How was he supposed to get experience this way? How was he supposed to prove himself if they never gave him a chance?

 Angrily, he snatched up a copy of that day's paper from where he'd thrown it on the floor. The headline shouted up at him as brightly as the red bellboy suit on the guy in the picture. A Mountie - a real-live honest-to-God Mountie - was running around Chicago saving kids from crazed gunmen, and he was stuck in classifieds. This was _not_ acceptable.

 Chad skimmed the article, noting the man's name. 'Benton Fraser'. Involuntarily, the young man grinned, the name reminding him of the nerd herd that he had employed for the highschool paper. They'd all had names like that, 'Benton', or 'Prescott', or 'Reginald', or some other oddball moniker. This guy looked to be just that type, with his red coat, strange cowboy hat, and ridiculous striped pants. Chad was convinced that anyone who'd wear that had a screw or two loose, uniform or no uniform.

 His brown eyes narrowed...from the looks of things, the Mountie lived right here in Chicago. It wouldn't be too hard for a tenacious and talented young reporter to locate where he lived. He'd scope the place out, talk to the neighbors, maybe even talk his way inside if he was lucky. With the Mountie in the hospital and not talking to anyone, the story was red-hot, and he was eager to get in on it.

 If he could find out about how and where the Mountie lived, he'd have an angle no one else could touch. He grinned as he grabbed his gum off the side of the phone where he'd stuck it while talking to Mrs. Pomputis. "Front page, here I come!"

 ***

 Inspector Margaret Thatcher had never considered herself a timid woman. Now, however, with brilliant lights making her eyes tear, dress reds making her itchy and uncomfortable, and a thousand microphones shoved in her face, she was feeling just that. She wanted to go back inside the Consulate and shut the door, but she knew what she would find there.

 Ringing phones and Constable Turnbull.

 She wasn't sure which of these hells was worse. Was it the hell of dealing with the RCMP superiors and Canadian politicians for whom she had recited the entire litany of incident, accident, and prognosis a thousand times already? Was it the hell of trying to handle Turnbull, who was near open hysteria due to the condition of his beloved idol and mentor? Was it the hell of the American media?

  _The media_ , she decided, _definitely the media. America's loudest, most obnoxious people armed with microphones and cameras. The only one missing from this herd is that damned Detective Vecchio._ Though she forced herself to stare right into the blinding lights, Thatcher was unable to bring up a smile. To the reporters, it looked as though the lovely Canadian was in severe pain. Desperately, she tried to keep up with the barrage of questions pounding against her.

 "Constable Fraser is in critical condition at the moment. He's suffered a severe head injury, and has been placed in a coma to allow healing...yes, the Canadian government has been informed...no, we do not know if he is going to survive...yes, the RCMP is very proud of his actions...medals? No, not that I am aware of. He was there for a public relations function...no, the dog is not connected to the RCMP...no, he's not a husky, he's a wolf."

 She winced at the frenzied reactions that this brought, and she waved her hands for silence. "He's perfectly safe. His name is Diefenbaker, and he is Constable Fraser's personal pet....no, I frankly do not know what he was doing in that school." Her voice was becoming snappish, but Thatcher didn't care. "The wolf goes everywhere...they're practically Siamese twins." The mob pressed even closer, more questions thundering in her ears, and she knew she had to regain control of this situation.

 Drawing herself up so that her spine was perfectly straight, she speared them with the glare that Ray Vecchio had once accused of being the sole reason for Canada's frigid climate. "That will be all, ladies and gentlemen. The RCMP is very proud of Constable Fraser's heroic actions. Of course we are saddened by his injuries, but every officer of our police force understands that risk comes with the uniform, just like in America. The Canadian government and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have nothing more to say at this time."

 Fighting the urge to run for her life, she made a crisp about face and climbed the stairs back into the Consulate. Thatcher could hear the snapping of cameras at her back, the additional shouted questions, but she ignored them. As the Consulate doors closed behind her, she could not contain a sigh of relief. She removed her hat, running her hand over the sheen of sweat that had collected under the band. She needed a cup of tea.

 For a moment, she almost called Fraser, but the summons died in her throat as she remembered. Suddenly, she needed the soothing effects of that tea more than ever. "Constable Turnbull!" she bellowed.

 Within moments, the young Mountie had dashed over, his face a strained mask of valiant composure. "Yes, sir?"

 "I'll be in my office...could you bring me a cup of tea?"

 "Yes, sir!" He started to turn, then stopped for a moment as though he had something to say. Turnbull's lower lip trembled, then he seemed to pull himself together as he left to get the tea.

 Feeling the growing pressure of a headache building, Thatcher started for her office. She was going to lock herself in and take the phone off the hook. Let the damned bureaucrats hear the busy signal and think that she was talking to one of them.

 All she wanted to do was go back to Canada, far, far away from anything American or anything remotely related to Constable Fraser. That man had been nothing but trouble since he had first set foot in Chicago, always getting into cases that defied belief, always playing the hero.

 As she passed the door of Fraser's tiny office, a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. Before she even thought about what she was doing, she quickly crossed the few steps to the door and pushed it open. The Constable's dark blue overcoat hung neatly on a hat stand, a small ventilation grate in the floor beneath it causing the scarlet lining to ripple and flutter. Thatcher's eyes swept the room, almost as if she were expecting Fraser to suddenly appear, apologizing profusely for the inconvenience and producing some fabulous explanation of how it had all been a ruse connected to one of his insane cases.

 The room was neat as a pin, as usual. Every paper was neatly stacked, every pencil sharpened, every paper clip in place. She knew that should she run a white-gloved finger along the underside of any piece of furniture, it would come away sparklingly clean. It was an environment that seemed too sterile to belong to any human being, but it did. It belonged to Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police...a man who she was supposed to supervise and protect.

 Now, he might die on her watch.

 Slowly, almost as if she was afraid to disturb the museum-like office, Thatcher closed the door. For a moment, she leaned against it, eyes closed, then she turned back towards her office. "Where the hell is that tea, Turnbull!"

 ***

 Elaine Besbriss stepped gingerly into the hospital room, clutching the small stuffed animal she was carrying as though it were a lifeline. It was a white plush wolf she had spotted at the toy store just after Christmas, and she nervously stroked it's soft fur. She'd bought it for Fraser, reasoning that he had few people that ever gave him presents, but it had been stashed in her dresser drawer and forgotten until now.

 "Hey, Fraser." Her voice was higher than usual, tight and nervous, and she was glad that no one else was there to see what a fool she was making of herself. She felt almost as though she had invaded on the Mountie while he was sleeping, though the myriad lines and needles imbedded in his body belied the serene expression on his face. The heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, and Elaine found it soothing, a reminder that he was still alive.

 Still holding tightly to the stuffed wolf, she settled into the chair by his bedside. "I...uh...well..." The Civilian Aide cleared her throat, then began again. "You see..." She paused again, then suddenly burst out laughing. "This is so ridiculous! I mean, here I am worrying about saying the right thing, and you have no idea I'm even here."

 Elaine got up, turning to face the window. Somehow it was easier to talk to him when she didn't have to look at him. Especially when he looked dead like that. "Of course, being totally oblivious like this is extremely strange for you, being Mr. Observant and all. Ray's told me some really wild ones about things you've pegged...stuff no human being should be able to recognize. Things like the taste of mud." She giggled. "That's become a favorite of his. He tells everyone that when he's hauling out the list of Weird Mountie Stories. That and the time you wrapped him in steak."

 Outside the window, the sunset was just fading, the last streaks of color just tinting the skyline between the tall buildings. Absently, she traced the horizon with her fingertip. "You've sure kept things interesting around the precinct. No one ever knows what you're going to do next, and I think that's really part of why you're so easy to like, Fraser. You're one of a kind, a breath of fresh air for us city slickers."

 She paused, blushing as she looked at the reflection of Fraser's bed in the glass of the window. "Of course, we ladies have our own reasons. I'm not going to deny that. You could have half the women in Chicago, Fraser, we all know that...but you don't do it." Elaine sighed, tossing her hands up in exasperation as she turned to face him again. "I don't know if you're really oblivious to how women look at you, or if it's all an act, but whatever it is, I like it." Her voice softened. "I like that you're not like every other bastard with a pretty face and a nice body, leaping into bed with every willing skirt that crosses your path. You're different."

 Without realizing it, she had been slowly moving across the hospital room as she spoke, and she now stood within inches of Fraser's bed. "You're a gentleman, Benton Fraser." Gently, she tucked the little stuffed wolf in beside him. "That shouldn't be unusual, I know, but it is. I remember the first time I gave you a file and you thanked me. Not just 'yeah thanks, Elaine, whatevah.'" Tossing her head sarcastically, she mimicked Vecchio's nasal tones as she dropped casually into the chair, her awkwardness vanished. "Not the way Ray and the boys do it. You looked me right in the eyes and did that 'thank you kindly' line of yours. And you really meant it. That was like...whoa. This guy is special."

 His hand was lying on the bed close to her, and it was the most natural thing in the world to just reach forward and pick it up. It was completely limp in her grasp and shockingly cold, the fingernails vaguely gray-tinged. Still, she stroked it almost unconsciously while she talked. "You're more than a gentleman. You've resurrected my belief that nice guys do actually exist out there. You've done that for a lot of people."

 Elaine squeezed his hand tightly, trying to ignore the tightness building in her throat. "You are not going to die, all right? Not unless you can find this world a replacement, and _that_ is simply not going to happen."

 ***

 "Look at you!"

 "I'm fine!"

 "No you're not." Ray moved in front of the door, spreading his long arms against the doorjamb to physically block his sister. "Listen to me, Frannie...you can't do this. You've been taking over for Ma here during the days and staying up with Benny nights. It's not even three days since he got blasted, and you already look like the living dead!"

 "Who are you to talk!?" Frannie tried to squirm past him, but he managed to block her every move. Frustrated, she looked up at him, rage gleaming through the tears of exhaustion in her red-rimmed eyes. This close to her, Ray could see the heavy coats of concealer and powder she had tried to use to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You've not exactly been sleeping in yourself." she accused bitterly.

 "I'm a cop. I'm on the case from hell, and after that press conference fiasco this morning, God only knows what's going to happen now. But the point is, I run on coffee. You're my kid sister. You're not a cop, you don't have any cases, and you shouldn't have to run on coffee."

 "That's sexist crap."

 "Too bad! You're staying home tonight, or you're getting some sleep tomorrow. Your choice."

 She frowned, one hand planted on her hip at a petulant angle. "I'm not leaving Benton alone at night, and with Ma gone, they need me here during the day. Maria needs help..."

 "Then tell her to get Tony off his ass for once," Ray yelled, "I'm not letting you do this, Frannie!" He folded his arms. "I won't drive you!"

 A wicked grin lit the young woman's face at this, and before he was even sure how he'd lost, Ray knew it was over. With remarkable speed, one manicured hand shot in and out of the pocket of Ray's sports coat, and the keys to the Riv were in Frannie's possession. Shocked, the Detective lunged for them. "What the hell do you think you're \- "

 Tired eyes sparkling at her triumph, Frannie slipped out of her brother's grasp with the elusiveness of a greased eel. She dashed out the door, jingling the keys loudly as she high-tailed it for the car. Ray was calling for her to stop, but she ignored him, and within moments he was watching the retreating taillights of the vehicle.

 He stood there in the road for several seconds, then sighed in defeat and turned back towards the house. "You'd better take care of yourself," he muttered, "I really don't need two people in the hospital."

 ***

 With ease born of years of practice, Francis Parker kept his face perfectly still and relaxed as his dark eyes skimmed over the script in front of him. Collette Demareste, the News 10 makeup girl, was busily smoothing the chocolate-colored pancake makeup over his face and neck, then packing on powder to prevent his skin from shining under the harsh lights. It was a familiar ritual, and she no longer even needed to remind him to turn his head at the proper times.

 "You've got ten minutes, Parker!" Tony Marciolla, the bear-like Italian Floor Director stuck his head into the small makeup room. Parker's eyes met Collette's questioningly in the mirror, and she smiled.

 "Have I ever made you late?" She swiped a clean sponge over his jawline, blending the makeup, then carefully lifted his toupee from its styrofoam head. It had been made for him at no small expense, and the expert work blended perfectly with his own close-cropped, conservative style. He disliked wearing it, as it was hot and itchy and felt almost intolerably unnatural, but he put up with it anyway. It was like the contact lenses that they had made him wear instead of his reading glasses. All part of the image.

 Finally, Collette had adjusted everything to her satisfaction, and she whisked away the cloth that had protected his expensive dress shirt. "See," she said brightly, "Four minutes to spare."

 Parker nodded a quick thank you, checking his reflection in the mirror before he left. The shirt was clean and crisply pressed, as were the trousers, not a wrinkle in sight. He had purposely loosened his simple burgundy tie and rolled up his sleeves, even going so far as to unbutton the top button of his shirt. It gave him the look of a conscientious professional who was hard at work, and that was exactly what the people wanted to see in the news promos. Their trusted News Ten anchor, hard at work, nose to the grindstone to deliver the six o'clock news on time, but taking a moment to update the people on how things were going.

 Grabbing his script off the makeup counter, he hurried off towards the set. They wouldn't be using the big news desk set for this one. It would be the news room set, the tiny canvas and plywood backdrop that was painted to resemble a hard-working office. The eyes and ears of Chicago.

 Unlike the larger set, this one was mostly automated, capable of delivering the footage with only Parker to sit in front of the camera, and Ronnie Chu, the director, to sit behind it. Everything was remote control, the lights, the one small camera known as the flashcam, and the blue screen of the TelePrompTer above. Like most of the news, this would be done live, the thirty second spot persuading viewers to turn on their televisions at six for the vital information he had to impart to them. He'd hit the top three stories, the sensational ones, and leave the fluff bits for the news itself.

 Parker slid into his chair and clipped on his lapel mike, repeating his name into it until Chu gave him the thumbs up to tell him it was working. Satisfied that was in order, he inserted the tiny black earpiece into his right ear, being sure to run the wire behind his ear and out of sight. Looking directly into the camera's lens, he smiled, pulling his professional persona smoothly into place.

 He was your friend, your trusted companion, the man who knew everything and wanted to make sure you were kept on top of it for your own well-being. After twenty years on television, the expression of calm trustworthiness was second nature, and no sense of stage fright or jitters gripped him as Chu counted down. Thirty seconds to air. He skimmed his script again, assuring himself that he had the brief blurb committed to memory.

 Twenty seconds. Ten. Five...four...three...two...one...Chu stabbed a finger at Parker, and he began, his smooth bass resonant. "Tidal waves decimate Chilean coast line as rescue workers fight against the floods." He watched the monitor over the camera, seeing the dramatic footage of a rampaging wall of water as he narrated. "Cancer...does your Doctor _really_ know your risks?" A quick series of images, a woman getting an MRI, a concerned patient talking to their physician, a child being injected. "And the latest on the highschool shooting investigation...a young man's parents suggest this tragedy could have been averted." More images...students laying flowers at the doors of the highschool, the Mountie being lifted into an ambulance, Kate and Stuart Pittman clutching one another and weeping.

 Then the camera was back to him, and Parker looked into it intensely. _See how important this is?_ His face seemed to say, _I'm working hard, and I'll be soon be ready to tell you all about it._ "Full coverage at six o'clock, here on News Ten, Chicago On Your Side."

 Another moment of earnest eye contact, and the blurb was over. Chu smiled as she stepped out from behind the camera, pushing her headset back from her ears to let it hang around her neck. "Okay, Parker, thanks. Oh, and by the way, Douwd wants to see you in his office about that story you wanted to pitch. He says if you've done your homework, he might be able to talk to Sydney Omarr and get it written up in time for the six."

 Parker nodded, unable to contain a smile. "Thanks. I'm on my way." Had he done his homework? He was from the generation that came before the Internet and fax lines, raised on radio and the sound of Walter Kronkite's reassuring voice. Journalism was going out and getting your story, having ink on your hands and mud on your shoes. Oh, yes, he did his homework, probably more than the rest of the point-and-click generation reporters and the supermodel anchors combined.

 It was certainly more than enough to land his story on the air at six.

 ***

 Chad Howell grabbed his Starbucks mug and flipped the switch to shut down his computer. Five o'clock precisely, and he wasn't going to hang around this place a moment longer than he absolutely had to. He took a last swig to empty the mug, resolving to swing by and grab a refill before he got down to the serious business of investigating this Fraser character. He'd need the energy.

 As he left his cubicle, he nearly ran into an elderly woman. She backed up quickly, startled, and Chad got a good look at her. She was about seventy years old or so, short, dressed in a floral housecoat and...oh God, was that actually a _bathrobe_?! It was. "I'm so sorry, young man," she blushed, clearly embarrassed by the near-collision, "you see, I was told I could come by here and pay for my ad so it could start running tomorrow. I know I'm a few minutes late, but do you think..."

 With a deep sigh, Chad turned back into the cubicle and flicked the computer on again. "Sure, lady, go ahead. Which ad was yours?"

 "Mrs. Pomputis. I was placing an ad for a little Pekinese." As the young journalist looked through his files, she began to pace the room, her hands fluttering in quick little motions like nervous birds. "I miss my dear little Trixie so much, and I have just got to get another special little pookie to replace her...you know how that is. And a Pekinese is just the only thing there is, really. They're such sweet little dogs. Have you ever had one?"

 The Pentium processor in the computer seemed to have been replaced by small dyslexics using abacuses. At least, it seemed that way to Chad as the computer ground slowly through its operations and left him at the woman's mercy. He realized that she had asked him a question, and was glad he was facing away from her so she couldn't see his eyes roll. "A Peke? Or a dog in general?"

 "Either, I suppose."

 "No Peke. Yes dog. Labrador."

 She cocked her head pensively. "Oh, I don't like big doggies at all. I'm convinced one ate my Trixie, you know. Well, I guess he wasn't a dog, really, he was a wolf, but that doesn't matter much, does it? No, it doesn't. It really was a shame, too, because the young man who owns him is so clean and polite...not like most young men these days. But he just doesn't understand about big doggies. Maybe it's because he's Canadian. He does a lot of funny things because he's Canadian."

 Chad spun his chair around so hard that he nearly fell over. His mind was racing, his eyes wide. What were the odds that there would be two wolf-owning Canadians living in Chicago?! Suddenly, it was all he could do not to kiss Mrs. Pomputis right then and there. The woman knew Fraser!

 Immediately, the reporter was all charm and smiles. "Considering your loss, ma'am, I think the Chronicle should really extend this advertisement to you free of charge."

 Her gray eyes widened behind her glasses. "Really? How sweet of you."

 He nodded, doing his best to seem ever so sympathetic. "Really. I agree with you...it's very dangerous to have a wolf running around Chicago. What if your Trixie wasn't the only pet he's harmed?"

 Mrs. Pomputis's hands fluttered again. "True, true. They tell us it was all some bad dogcatcher who was selling our pets to a lab, but I can't imagine any person ever trying to hurt Trixie. It would have to be a wild animal."

 It took a great deal of restraint for him not to comment that there were many people, himself included, who couldn't stand the Pekinese breed and would happily sell every single one to labs. "It would have to be." He snapped his fingers, looking at her wide-eyed as though a thought had just occurred to him. "You know, maybe the Chronicle should do a story on this? I'll talk to this man with the wolf, and we'll see if we can't work something out."

 Her wrinkled face lit up with a bright smile. "Wonderful! I'll tell you where he lives!"

 Quickly, he grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, but as she recited the address, he felt his heart sink. The apartment building she had indicated was located in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. No one in his right mind, Chad Howell included, would even remotely consider going there after dusk without the assistance of something very large caliber and several NFL linebackers. Still, he finished noting the address and jammed the paper in the pocket of his loose jeans.

 After thanking Mrs. Pomputis again and sending her on her way, he pulled the paper out again and leaned against the cubicle wall. He absently blew a large bubble with his gum, snapping it loudly as he examined the address. It was definitely not a good neighborhood. He'd have to wait and go in the morning.

 ***

 Slowly, Benton Fraser walked down the empty hallway towards his apartment. He could hear singing, and his smooth brow furrowed in curiosity. Fraser was quite certain that he lived alone, and Diefenbaker certainly wouldn't be singing. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, then sighed at what he found there.

 "I thought I told you I had him on a diet, Dad." Robert Fraser looked up from where he had been kneeling by the table, not the slightest guilt showing on his face at being caught feeding the wolf candy. 

 Ruffling the animal's fur briefly, the elder Fraser stood to face Benton. "That's not what I'd be worried about, if I were you, son."

 "You're corrupting my wolf." He gestured sharply to where Dief had begun nosing the box that lay on the table. "I have no idea how I am supposed to formulate basic morality in him as long as you insist on undermining my efforts!"

 His father looked at him with a rather disappointed air. "Maybe you are losing your edge after all."

 "I fail to see how not wanting Diefenbaker to glut himself on sweets is construed as 'losing my -" The younger Mountie suddenly stopped, his face paling. "Dief can see you. I thought only I could...."

 Robert Fraser beamed, pulling out a chair and sitting down, one leg crossed casually over the other. "A little slow getting there, but you seem to be catching on."

 "And the chair...Dad, you can't manipulate objects, you're _dead_!" Even as he spoke, Benton felt an edge of worry about Mr. Mustafi. If he were overhearing this conversation, it would be decidedly difficult to explain. Of course, his entire current situation was rather difficult to explain, unless... "Oh dear."

 Now it was Benton's turn to sit. "Dad, may I ask you a personal question?" He paused. "Well, actually it's not entirely personal, as the outcome would certainly have an effect on my professional life as well."

 His father leaned back in the chair, arms crossed casually behind his head. "Fire away, son."

 "Are Diefenbaker and I dead?"

 There was a moment of contemplation, then the answer. "Technically, no."

 " _Technically_?"

 "You're in a coma, son. As for Diefenbaker," He tossed the wolf several more candies, not one of which ever touched the ground. "he's badly injured and deeply sedated. These are dreams. For you...ah, who can say?"

 Benton sank slowly forward, his elbows resting on the table and his head in his hands. "I'm in a coma? How did I get in a coma? I don't remember doing anything to get myself in a coma."

 "You've done plenty of things to get yourself in a coma!" Fraser Sr. laughed, "They just haven't worked until now!" He leaned across the table, lowering his head until he was looking at the top of his son's Stetson, where his eyes would be were he looking up instead of at the table top. "Oh, buck up, boy! You've got --"

 "What, Dad?" At this, Benton did look up, a brief flash in his eyes that was almost anger. "I've got to get my man? How many times do I have to tell you, Dad, that is not our motto! The last time I let you talk me into that, I had a concussion. I was blind and temporarily paraplegic due to a subdeural hematoma that also grossly impaired my mental function and had me traipsing over Canada following a motto that wasn't even our motto! I admit that I am more than likely concussed again if, as you say, I am comatose, but I am not going to do this again."

 "Fine then." The older man stood, circling around to lean over his son's shoulder. "But this time, I'm not asking you to go anywhere."

 "A good thing," Benton pointed out, "because I am likely in fairly precarious physical condition."

 "I'm ordering you."

 "Ordering me?"

 "As your father, and as a ranking officer of the RCMP who has over twenty years seniority."

 "What are you ordering me to do, Dad?"

 "Fight, son."

 "Fight?"

 Both men were by now completely ignoring Dief, who had taken the entire box of candy and was busily consuming them in a dream that had his corporeal mouth watering. Benton's father placed both hands on his son's shoulders, and two sets of eyes met with the intensity of a summer lightning storm. Robert Fraser's voice dropped. For a moment, there was more warmth, more genuine paternal love and concern than Benton had ever heard before. "You are going to fight, and you are going to win, because there is a terrible injustice occurring out there. If you are going to right it, you are going to have to fight and survive. Maintain the right, son, maintain the right."

 ***

 "It's ugly."

 "Very ugly."

 Detectives Jack Huey and Louis Gardino looked over the bags of evidence spread out over the table. There were literally hundreds of them, and every one of them held clues that could be vital to finding out what happened up in that hallway. Huey reached out with one latex-gloved hand and picked up the nearest. It contained an algebra textbook pierced by a bullet.

 Gardino was unable to contain a black chuckle. "That one was in a kid's backpack. Found out when he got outside that math had saved his life...damnedest thing too, cuz he said he was _this_ close to failing the course."

 Almost reverently, Huey's big hands lifted the damaged text and carefully opened it, trying to see how far the bullet had penetrated. That would tell him how fast it had been going when it hit. Page 56. That meant...his dark features crinkled into a frown. "Damn, I wish the Mountie were here."

 "Yeah," Gardino's brash tones abruptly subdued, "he'd probably be able to look at that and tell us what the son of a bitch ate for breakfast."

 There was a long pause, the book forgotten. "He's a good cop, you know, Louis? I mean, sure, the guy's a bit of a nut case -- "

 "He hangs out with Vecchio of his own free will, this goes without saying."

 Huey couldn't contain a smile at that. "I was going to chalk that one to spending God knows how long up there with the moose."

 Gardino grinned back, "Now you are saying that Vecchio is preferable company to a moose?"

 "Now...hell no, the guy's been a royal pain in the ass since the Mountie got hurt." He shrugged. "But before that...marginally. The moose definitely gets my vote as less annoying, but Vecchio's got a better looking sister."

 "This is true."

 The book was replaced among the pile of bagged evidence. Both men began to silently paw through the heap, their experienced eyes attempting to piece the mess into a crime scene. "So, about the Mountie..." Gardino attempted to keep his voice casual, but the Italian's tone still betrayed clear concern.

 "Yeah?"

 "You heard anything about him lately? I mean, how's he doing?"

 For a moment, Huey almost looked up, then decided to keep his eyes focused on his work. "Elaine went to see him. The Docs are saying he's doing okay, but she says he's looking pretty sick. Hooked up to half the damn hospital and real pale, even for as white a white guy as Fraser normally is." The joke fell flat, and both men knew it. Neither was willing to look up, to meet the other's eyes.

 "Doesn't sound good, Jack."

 "He'll be okay." Huey's burly hands fingered a bead from a girl's necklace with a surprisingly gentle touch. "He's a tough cop."

 "My grandmother isn't even that polite." There was a pause, then the Italian lifted another bag from the pile. It was a brass button that the tag indicated had been found in the hallway. Its surface was highly polished, engraved with a tiny crest. Three scarlet threads still trailed from the back, indicating it had been ripped away. For a long moment, Louis just looked at the button, then he opened the bag and took it out, clasping it tightly in his fist. "But he is a tough cop," he admitted, "a hell of a tough cop."

 ***

 "And that's it for tonight's sports coverage. Back to you, Shannon."

 Shannon O'Donell, anchorwoman on News Ten at Six, smiled warmly at the wall beside her. To the viewing public, it looked as though her model's smile was being directed at Phil Delong, the sportscaster, but the 'screen' he appeared on in reality did not exist. It was a figment of the control room, part of the magic of television. "Thank you, Phil," she said smoothly to nothing.

 "Head on O'Donell." Tony Marciolla whispered the directive to the cameraman through his headset, and the image shifted to show only the woman's head and shoulders. She was a classical Irish beauty, from her blazing red hair to her porcelain skin and the brilliant blue of her eyes. A former model and dancer, she was the newest member of the News Ten anchor team, but already beloved. Ratings had jumped several full points since her arrival.

 "Next on News Ten at Six:" Before the words were out of her mouth, a tape had been cued in the control room, and the latter half of her sentence was accompanied by footage of hands exchanging money at a cash register, a scale weighing a bunch of bananas, and change being counted out of a cash drawer. "Is your grocer cheating you?"

 Tony gestured to the young man at camera two, "Head on Parker."

 The dark, trusted face of Francis Parker filled the screen. "Additional evidence on the recent school shooting," More footage, the funeral of Rebecca Lieberman, her mother dressed in black and dabbing at her eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Pittman clutching each other at the conference, and the _TIME_ photo of the Mountie's face, harshly cut in to look almost like a mug shot. "Is there more to the Mountie than meets the eye?"

 A quick gesture to camera three, and Tony didn't really need to whisper. "And two," to bring the picture on the screen to show most of the news desk, with the team of Parker and O'Donell ready and waiting to bring the truth to Chicago.

 "All this and more when we return with more News Ten at Six." Parker finished, then Ronnie Chu waved her arm to indicate the cut to commercials. The on air monitor that showed them what Chicago was viewing in their living rooms changed from the news desk to a trio of inebriated frogs, and the atmosphere in the studio relaxed slightly.

 Collette Demareste rushed forward to quickly spray back a wayward curl from O'Donell's carefully crafted hairstyle, and Parker sipped at a glass of water from beneath the desk. He caught Chu's brilliant smile from off camera, and couldn't help a slight one of his own. Sydney Omarr was a hell of a writer to get moving, but when he did move, his stuff was great, and Parker had thankfully been able to get him moving in time for the six. The story was good to go, and it was going to shake Chicago to its shoes.

 Tony's voice crackled in Parker's earpiece, and Collette scurried away as the last commercial ended and the News Ten logo gave way to another two shot. "Pan for box," came the whisper to camera one, and the screen moved a bit to the left to allow room over Parker's right shoulder for a box containing a bold montage graphic of the highschool's exterior, an RCMP tunic, and a gun, all slashed over with yellow police tape.

 Parker glanced only for a moment at his notes, then began. "Only a few days ago, this nation was stunned with the tragic news that violence had again broken out in our schools. Three young lives were taken, and another eleven students wounded when seventeen year old Jason Pittman began firing into the halls of his highschool. As in every such case, parents and teachers have been searching desperately for answers."

 Roll tape. Mrs. Pittman, that morning, a crawl across the bottom of the screen showing her name, and citing her occupation as pediatrician. "We aren't making excuses for him. What he did was so terribly, terribly wrong." She stood before the cameras bravely, the very picture of wounded motherhood. "I don't know why he would do such a thing...he never seemed like anything bothered him. He was so..." The break for tears, every female viewer feeling instant sympathy with this heartbroken woman.

 "We've gone over everything," Mr. Pittman spoke now, the crawl shifting to remind people that he was a stockbroker. "his room, his friends, his music. None of this makes sense. And we aren't asking you to forgive him. He killed Rebecca, Keith, and Emmanuel, and we express only the deepest remorse towards their families."

 Parker's voice again, overlaid over the change of footage, "Those families have begun to speak now, and despite their own devastating losses, they display only compassion towards the Pittman family." More tape came up, this of Mrs. Montoya, whose son Emmanuel had been one of those killed. She spoke in broken, thickly accented English. "His mother, his father, they not who killed my boy. I have so much anger about losing Emmanuel. I loved him more than I know words for saying. But I am not angry to them. I do not know who I am angry to."

 "It was an accident that never should have happened." Mr. Pittman again, looking with pain-filled eyes into the camera, then another cut.

 Now it was Parker himself on screen, talking to a non-existent screen just as O'Donell had been doing. On that screen was a man dressed in a police officer's uniform. "I'm talking now with Captain Peter LeMatt of the Chicago Police Department SWAT team. Captain LeMatt, why didn't the SWAT team handle this situation?"

 "We didn't have time, it's as simple as that." He looked slightly uncomfortable with being on TV, but Parker didn't mind. He didn't like them too smooth, they looked like actors then. "We'd just gotten there, and we never want to rush a situation. It's hard, especially when there's kids involved like this, but if you rush in without thinking, people could die. My team was just preparing to enter the building when we saw Constable Fraser make his move."

 "Thank you, Captain." Parker nodded sagely, then the last tape bit played, Mr. Pittman again.

 "I'm sure he had nothing but good intentions, but he's not a hostage negotiator. He's not a psychologist. He's not a SWAT team member. He knows nothing about dealing with troubled youth. He's not even an American police officer. And because he came charging to the rescue, he is now in critical condition in the hospital, and Jason is dead."

 Those words were left ringing in the ears and hearts of Chicago.

 

****

PART TWO

Dogs Of War

  ************************************************************

 "I don't think it's asking that much. I don't know how it is here in the United States, but up in Canada, there are certain things we expect of doctors. We expect them to tell us what's wrong. We expect them to try their damnedest to fix it. And we certainly expect them to tell us what the hell is going on."

 Doctor McCormick sighed and leaned back against the wall of the hospital corridor. He'd always thought of Canadians as quiet, polite people. This woman, however - this Margaret Thatcher - was not. She was abrasive and demanding, as fiery as any American woman he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Maybe he should check her citizenship. "Look, Inspector," he explained, "I'd be happy to tell you. But I really haven't the slightest idea myself."

 "Then what's that?" The petite, dark-haired woman crossed her arms over her chest and nodded towards the thick sheaf of papers he was holding. "That file is marked with the Constable's name."

 He thumbed through the papers so she could see. "That's because it's his...Fraser, Benton T. Nurses' reports. Test results. Printouts from his monitors. Drug records. Medical history. Your basic medical file."

 "Which is supposed to include a prognosis."

 "You want a prognosis, lady?" McCormick knew he was going to regret this, but he was tired, and this woman was truly grating on his nerves. "Fine. All the tests and readouts say the same thing, and that's that right now, everything is ticking along. Heart's pumping, blood's circulating, major organs doing their job, lungs respiring efficiently. But his brain is in neutral...and it's going to stay that way until one of two things happens. Either the intercranial pressure abates enough for us to bring him up to consciousness again so that we can see how badly things have been damaged, or..." He shifted uncomfortably, and the Inspector's eyes flashed. She pounced.

 "Or?"

 "Or the pressure may spike drastically, and he may die."

 "And what are the odds of that happening?"

 "We aren't sure." The look in her eyes was positively venomous, and McCormick winced. Just as he was ready to run for his life, his beeper went off, and he practically fell over his own feet as he excused himself and headed down to the ER. He could feel her gaze burning into his back as he left, but he didn't care. She was another doctor's problem now, thank God.

 ***

 Ma Vecchio stood in the doorway of Fraser's room, a sad smile on her face as she watched the exchange between the Inspector and Dr. McCormick. The younger woman was so tense, so angry all the time. It really wasn't fair for her to go after the Doctor like that...he'd been doing everything he could for Fraser. Didn't she understand that there are times you simply have to sit back and let destiny take its course?

 Quietly, she stepped out into the hallway, walking up to Thatcher. Her voice was warm and gentle, "So much anger, Margaret." Thatcher whirled around, and Mrs. Vecchio laughed. "That face! Don't you know that you'll put wrinkles around those pretty eyes with faces like that?"

 A veil descended over the Inspector's features, a carefully crafted mask of professional control. It didn't fool Mrs. Vecchio for a moment, but she understood what it meant. Without saying a word, she turned and went back into Fraser's room, leaving the door open behind her. She knew that Thatcher would follow, and had to hide a small smile when she heard the click of the high-heeled shoes that entered shortly after she did. The Italian woman didn't acknowledge the entrance directly, but instead walked up to Fraser's bedside.

 Leaning over him, she smoothed a hand over one pale cheek, careful not to touch the still-healing cuts. "He was always an inside man." Her tone was quiet, musing, and she knew it would rouse the Inspector's curiosity.

 "What's that supposed to mean?"

 Still, Mrs. Vecchio did not look at Thatcher, keeping her dark eyes focused on the injured Mountie. "Always keeping everything on the inside, never wanting anyone else to worry about him, always so busy making other people happy and safe. No one was supposed to be able to see that he was all alone." She smiled, "But I saw it. Maybe I'm not his mother, but I saw it. He's like a loaf of bread...smooth and tender and so perfect on the outside, but on the inside, he's easily torn and very empty."

 "That's nice." Finally, Mrs. Vecchio turned. Thatcher looked distinctly uncomfortable with the conversation, exactly as anticipated. It was as she had thought...masks were something that she knew too well. Talking about the weaknesses, the humanity of others would not be easy for this woman, but especially not Fraser's weaknesses. This woman wanted to see Fraser as a tin soldier, solid and dependable to serve her without question. But he mustn't have feelings.

 Pretending not to have noticed her discomfort, Mrs. Vecchio looked back down towards Fraser again. "Forgive me...I'm a sentimental old woman." She chuckled, glancing back up at Thatcher with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "But I still know that you will get wrinkles on your face if you keep looking at doctors that way, bambina."

 Thatcher folded her arms with a small, derisive snort. "I've had a stressful couple of days."

 The Italian frowned. "Canada is angry?"

 "They want information. Everyone wants information, and I'm supposed to be the one who has it. I can't even go to the bathroom without my phone ringing two or three times. Newspapers. Television stations. Radio stations. Police. FBI. RCMP." She tossed her head in exasperation. "I've even gotten two phone calls from the Commissioner himself!"

 A thick, work-weathered hand closed over a dainty, manicured one. "Mia cara bambina, listen to me. You have a lot of responsibility. You do your job...you tell them what you know and what you don't know yet, and no one will be able to say anything bad about you."

 Thatcher smiled bitterly. "You have no idea."

 "So what will you do, bambina? Lie to them and say you know when you don't? Bite the heads off more doctors who are trying to save this man's life? Or will you just be angry at everyone who might see that you're also bread?"

 "What?!" Thatcher jerked back, here eyes wide. "That's ridiculous! I am not some hermit like..."

 "Your crust is anger, making others fear you so that they cannot see your fear."

 The hazel eyes were cold now, and Thatcher took a step back, smoothing down her jacket as she looked at the older woman with cool detachment and a bit of warning. "Mrs. Vecchio, I appreciate your attempts to play amateur psychiatrist, but you quite frankly don't know what you're talking about, and I would appreciate it if you would keep out of my personal business."

 "If you wish, bambina."

 "I wish, and it's 'Inspector,' thank you."

 "Inspector, then." Her own voice had taken on a hard edge as well, "I won't say anymore. But know that there's still someone who can see."

 Deliberately, she turned her back again. All of her attention was now focused on Fraser's serene face. It was as though Thatcher did not even exist as she settled into her chair and began to rock smoothly back and forth, stroking his hand. She hummed quietly as she did so, then words began to slowly seep in to the melody.

__
    
    
    "Angelo di Dio che sei il mio custode, illumina, custodisci,
    reggi e governa me
    che ti fui affidato dalla pietà celeste."
    

__

"That's beautiful...what does it mean?" Thatcher's voice was hushed.

 "It's an old lullaby for sick children. My mother sang it to me and my brothers and sisters when I was sick. Her mother sang it to her family. I sing it to mine."

 "Oh."

 Smiling softly, she began again, this time singing in English for the Inspector's benefit. 

__

"Angel of God, my guardian dear,  
To whom God's love commits me here.  
Ever this day, remain at my side,  
To watch and to love, to heal and to guide."

Tears built in her eyes and tightened her throat, choking off the last words of the song into unrecognizable murmurs. She had sung this song many times over her own babies. Perhaps she had not been the one to give birth to Benton Fraser, but she felt she was well within her rights to watch over him before the Virgin Mary, to light candles and offer prayers for his recovery.

"Ah, mio picollo Benton," she whispered. "You'll live. Such a big heart...you'll live." Tenderly, she kissed him on his forehead, not caring if Thatcher was still there or not. "You don't see how many people are praying for you...and how many are only praying on the inside."

There was a long moment of complete silence, then the sound of heels on tile, and the opening and closing of the door. Inspector Thatcher was gone. When the latch clicked, she leaned down to whisper conspiratorially in the young Constable's ear. "Your Margaret, Benton...she's on the inside."

Pulling back, she studied his peaceful features, then collected her needlework from her bag by the chair. It would be another long day of vigil, but she was grateful for the peace. "Poor Margaret," she murmured, "you have no peace."

***

 THE NEXT MORNING

DAY THREE

***

 Francis Parker nodded politely to the taxi driver, offering the man a slightly higher tip than would usually be given for the distance they had traveled. The driver needed something to acknowledge the courage it had taken to drive out here.

 Looking around, he experienced an eerie feeling of déjà vu. The dilapidated buildings, the boarded-up windows and broken glass, the laundry hanging from sagging lines above the narrow, litter-strewn alleys...it was like coming home. Only this time, instead of looking at this segment of America from the viewpoint of a ten-year old boy on a rusty bicycle, he was seeing it through different eyes altogether.

 The cardboard boxes were no longer places to play fort, they were places where winos sheltered. The gang members hanging out on the corners were not the simple delinquents of the fifties anymore...now, they were the kings in the kingdom of the ghetto. Their scepter was drugs, their knights the bands of gun-toting thugs who ruled over the peasants with an iron fist and a flashing switchblade. It was a neighborhood without life or hope, the sort of place where a decent man would be crushed like a fragile spring blossom growing between train tracks.

 Which was why Parker had left. He had clawed his way up and out, doggedly using every advantage and edge he could find to escape this world. It had begun with a childhood fascination with the voices on his mother's radio, the brave journalists who would travel to all corners of the globe to tell the world what was happening there. Using a tiny crystal radio ordered by saving cereal boxtops for months, he had sat in his room at night, 'reporting' everything he saw happening outside his windows.

 Three jobs and little sleep had lead him to college, where he had majored in journalism, riding the wave of civil rights activism to become the token black reporter for a small liberal campus paper. He had known that he was nothing more than a political statement, but so be it. Parker was as good, if not better, than anyone else. If playing political correctness was what had to be done to get where he wanted to go, then he could live with that.

 He had lived with it. He had not only lived with it, but he had climbed the ladder steadily over the years until he had achieved his current position. One of the best-known news personalities in the nation. Anchorman on Chicago's top-rated television news program. Finally doing what he had dreamed of, digging out the stories and telling them to the world, even in an environment that was rapidly changing to be all sensationalism and spin rather than real journalism. Smiling at his successes in the forty years since he had last set foot in an area like this, Parker walked confidently down the alley towards 221 West Racine.

 All the theories he had been formulating were reinforced by what he saw around him. If this was indeed where the Mountie lived, then to use an old phrase, 'what's wrong with this picture'? He'd looked into the RCMP salary scale, and even with the adjustment for the abysmal exchange rate, Fraser was making more than enough money to live someplace much better than this. For a man to choose to live in such an environment, there had to be a reason, and he had a strong suspicion that reason did not fall within the bounds of legal behavior.

 As he entered the dark building, his nose wrinkled. The years had dulled his memory of how these places smelled. It was a permeating stench of mildew, rat droppings, rust, spilt alcohol, and the faint chemical smell of peeling paint. Trying not to let the fabric of his expensive suit touch anything he passed, Parker climbed the stairs to the third floor.

 He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this was not it. A young man was loitering at the end of the hall, trying so hard to look nonchalant that he was terribly obvious about it. He was dressed in loose blue jeans and a sleeveless white muscle shirt with a beer logo. The shirt wasn't showing much muscle, but it was showing the beads of nervous perspiration that had broken out on the youth's pale skin. Parker cleared his throat, and the boy jumped a mile. On seeing that Parker was not some inner-city ogre, he let out a nervous, twittering laugh, smoothing back the strands of longish brown hair that had fallen into his eyes.

 "Hey...I, I know you!" The boy's eyes widened. "You're that guy on News 10! Parker, right?" He sighed in relief, then paused, thought a moment, then cocked his head like a curious puppy. "So, what are you doing here?"

 "The same thing as you." Parker said calmly. "Although it appears that we've chosen different forms of the same media. I'm with News 10 at 6, while you, on the other hand, are in the employ of the Chicago Chronicle."

 "How...how the hell...?"

 It was all Parker could do not to grin. No matter how many times he did this, it was always fun. A childhood spent reading Arthur Conan Doyle, and a few years of his youth spent in the forensics labs of New York had done wonders for his observational skills. The fun of watching someone's jaw drop as he deduced them never faded. "The way your wrists hang tell me that you spend long hours at the computer. There is a stain on your left hand that could only come from changing the color cartridge on an industrial printer. The pads of your fingers and palm are vaguely gray-tinged...you've handled so much newsprint that the ink won't come out with simple soap and water any more. As for which paper you work at...the notepad in your back pocket is Chicago Chronicle stationary."

 The boy laughed and held out his hand. "Chad Howell. That is so cool! Where did you learn that trick?"

 Parker sighed. "Just something I picked up." What he hadn't told Howell was that he had also pegged him in a couple of other ways. Howell was an ambitious slacker, the kind who figured that the world owed him a living, and that someone with his 'talent' should be rich and famous with a minimum of work. He hated those types. Yet at the same time, Parker knew it would be worth it to have Howell on his side. He already had several friends in the print media, but they were the big shots, the ones too bound by ethics to share the inside information Parker so needed. This boy was the type who would tell him anything in a heartbeat. The type he wanted.

 Shaking Howell's hand warmly, he brought out his best 'so great to meet you' smile. "Not many people would have been able to find this place, Chad. Took me quite a bit of digging around. How'd you find it?"

 "I...uh..." Howell shifted nervously, kicking at a dustbunny with the toe of his sneaker. "I've got my sources."

 Translation: It wasn't exactly ethical.

 Parker nodded sagely, as if 'sources' were something all newsmen understood. In truth, it had just confirmed that Howell was someone who could really work. The boy was ambitious enough to get fuzzy with the fine points of the law. "What brought you here, Chad? What's your view on this story?"

 An attempt at hyper-pro delivery was somewhat hampered by the large wad of gum in Howell's jaws. "Well, this is the big story, you know. Shooting, gun control, keeping an eye on kids, what cops should and shouldn't do about the stuff, the Canuk angle...everyone's going for that. But I don't see anyone going after the Mountie himself. Where he lives, who he hangs with, who he's going out with, that kind of stuff. I figured I could be the first."

 "That's -" He cut off as the door to 3J opened. A young woman stepped out, and Parker could almost literally see Howell's youthful hormones leap to attention. She was about nineteen, a Hispanic beauty with a figure so curvaceous that it could only be categorized as 'hour-and-a-half glass'. Her bleached blue jean shorts and white halter top emphasized her dusky coloring, and even Parker felt his heart skip a beat when she turned to look at the two strange men.

 "Are you here to see Benton?" Her English was good, the accent quite light.

 "In a way," Parker replied, "are you a friend of his, Miss...?"

 She laughed. "Garcia. No, not really. He watches over my cousins sometimes...my Aunt lives here, but I just visit. I don't know him that well."

 "Then what were you doing in his apartment?", Howell questioned.

 "My Aunt told me about his accident...I was just making sure things were all in place. He keeps it so tidy. Not like most of the chingatos who live here." Her voice twisted bitterly as she spat out the curse. Clearly, she did not think much of her Aunt's neighborhood.

 Many years in the news business had taught Parker to be discreet, and he knew this was the time. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that there was likely more between this Latin vixen and the handsome Constable than babysitting, but this wasn't the time. Parker simply filed it away as yet another interesting tidbit on Fraser. "Do you think it would be all right if we look around, Miss Garcia?"

 She paused a moment, drumming her fingers on the edge of the doorframe in thought. "He never locks his door...he's a very trusting man. But I don't think he'd want people poking around. He's private, too. Mr. Mustafi has taken up a collection to buy him a lock for while he's in the hospital."

 Parker smiled charmingly. "It's all right, Miss Garcia. We aren't thieves. I'm Francis Parker from News 10 at 6, and this gentleman is Mr. Chad Howell from the Chicago Chronicle. We're here regarding the Constable's recent heroism. Trying to get inside him, find out what makes someone like that tick."

 A tiny, sad smile appeared on the girl's full mouth. "A good heart makes him tick." She paused, then decided. "I'll let you in, but I go with you, and you don't take anything, you don't move anything. Comprende?" Both Parker and Howell nodded, and she opened the door, motioning the two men past her.

 The first thing that struck him was that the Mountie's apartment smelled different. It smelled clean. There was no hint of the rodent droppings or mildew, and there was a faint odor of cleaning fluid and soap. The tiny window was sparkling clean, every surface immaculate. There was not so much as a speck of dust anywhere to be seen, and Parker couldn't help reflecting that with this level of cleanliness, even this hole-in-the-wall was halfway livable.

 It could be, that is.

 The room had the spartan feel of a prison cell. The only furniture was a bed, a small bedside table, a dining table by the window with two chairs, and a large trunk that rested along one wall. All the furniture was as simple as possible, very few decorative touches visible anywhere. There wasn't a single knicknack, a single photograph. No curtains hung on the windows, only a single utilitarian rug warmed the cold floor. There were no electric appliances beyond a small thrift-store lamp. No radio, no television, no computer, no telephone.

 Yet as his keen eye surveyed the room, Parker spotted a few hints that someone lived there. A stainless steel dog dish sat in one corner near a thick, folded blanket that clearly served as the animal's bed. A single book rested near the lamp. Examining it, he saw that it was not some fashionable paperback best-seller. It was an old cloth-bound volume, gold letters clearly embossed on the burgundy cover. _"Watermarks Of North American Currency 1800-1950_ ". Parker thumbed through it, finding that much to his surprise, it was exactly that. A book on currency watermarks, with page 153 neatly bookmarked with one of the simple paper strips the library provided.

 His closet was barely large enough for the simple wardrobe it contained. There were two brown serge uniforms, three plaid flannel shirts, two pairs of jeans (Parker noted that he had never before seen anyone else put blue jeans on a hanger), a few sweaters, a brown leather jacket, a dark gray suit, a blue shirt, and a pair of red longjohns. Clearly, he was more interested in function than fashion, though all the clothing was well cared for and clean.

 The puzzle was compounded when he looked in Fraser's cupboards. Rice, flour, sugar, chamomile tea, canned chicken noodle and tomato soups, crackers, some kind of dried beef jerky, canned peaches. His refrigerator was equally barren. A simple selection of fresh fruits and vegetables, whole-wheat bread, butter, milk, a half-pound of hamburger meat, and a large butcher's parcel of meat scraps that was clearly intended for the dog. Parker's dark face furrowed in puzzlement. Prisoners got more variety than this. Was Fraser some kind of minimalist freak, or was the money going somewhere else, leaving him with only enough for staples?

 His curiosity rising, Parker tugged at the lid on Fraser's trunk. It was locked. Howell wandered over and looked over his shoulder. "What's with this guy? Is he like, a monk or something?"

 "I don't think so," the older man muttered, "try this lid."

 "Locked." Howell's eyebrows shot up as the significance of that registered. "Hey, that's where all his secret stuff must be stashed. I mean, why else would the guy lock the box if he won't even lock the door?"

 "Good question." Without elaborating further, he stood and turned to where Miss Garcia was still leaning casually against the doorframe, where she had been watching them for the last five minutes. "Thank you very much, Miss."

 Parker said his good-byes to the young lady, but remained silent as they walked down the stairs and out of the building. He knew Howell was chattering questions and commentary at him, but he wasn't listening, he was theorizing.

 Fraser's manner of living was odd to say the least, but Parker believed he had found the answer for the Canadian's strange ways. It had come as something of an epiphany in the spartan apartment, and once he had lit upon that solution, everything about Fraser had come together in a neat package, every loose end well tied up.

 This one theory explained why a man who was making over $50,000 (even though that number was in Canadian funds) a year was living in a $300 a month hellhole. It explained why he lived in the low-class crime hub of Chicago. It explained why his food was limited to the essentials and why he didn't appear to have bought a single new item of clothing since coming to America. It explained where the money went. It explained the open door but the locked trunk. It also explained why everyone who knew him seemed to describe him as "nice but odd" or "a little clueless".

 Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, had a drug habit.

 ***

 "Oh, _shit_!" Frannie cursed as she threw open the oven door, a thick cloud of smoke billowing out to envelop her in the ominous smell of cremated chocolate chip cookies. She reached for the cookie sheet, but at the last minute remembered to use an oven mitt. Leaving the oven door open, she began to search through the drawers and cabinets.

 "Frannie!" Maria's voice sounded panicked, so she abandoned her search. Taking only a moment to shut off the oven and kick the door closed, she rushed out into the living room. Maria was standing there holding the baby, who was covered from head to toe in what appeared to be blue magic marker. More marker was scrawled over a good portion of the wall, and Frannie winced as she recognized the faint smell that was noticeable over the stronger aroma of burnt cookie. It was the smell of indelible marker. This was just wonderful.

 Rubbing despairingly at her daughter's cheek with the corner of a tissue, Maria looked at her sister with pleading eyes. "Frannie, could you watch Michael for me while I give her a bath? Please?"

 "What about..." Frannie looked back at the kitchen, then cringed and put her hands over her ears as the smoke alarm began to wail. It was followed almost immediately by the baby, who didn't find the loud, high-pitched noise at all to her liking. "What about Tony?" she shouted over the din.

 As the alarm continued to screech, she ran back into the kitchen, fishing around in the pantry until she could find a broom. Trying to ignore the headache that was not being helped by the blaring alarm, she jabbed at the smoke detector with the handle of the broom until the batteries dropped loose and the screeching stopped. The baby's cries did not, and Frannie wished that nieces came with batteries as well.

 Maria bounced the baby gently, trying to soothe her. "The game's on," she explained, "so you know how useful Tony is right now...the kids could lose limbs and he wouldn't notice. Come on, Frannie...I've got to wash her now or I'll never get it out."

 "Okay!" Frannie yelled, "Just send him in here." Having spotted the oven mitt hanging on a hook, she snatched it up and turned back to the oven as Maria left. Smoke enveloped her, and she coughed harshly as she carried the cookies to the sink at arm's length. Dropping them in, she ran water over them until they stopped smoking, then looked in despair at the blackened, charred mess adhered eternally to the cookie sheet.

 She had just reached for the scrub brush when she heard the sounds of little feet running into the kitchen. The feet were running. Running was bad. Shouting a warning, she whirled just in time to see her nephew skid off balance on the floor she had waxed just that morning. His Ninja-Turtle sneakered feet flew out from under him, and he landed hard, smacking his head against the leg of the kitchen table. There was a moment of stunned silence, then he began to scream.

 Frannie saw the growing lump on his head, and grabbed a dishtowel, soaking it in cool water and squeezing it out. "It's okay, sweetie," she cooed, "Aunt Frannie's coming."

 She threw open the freezer and reached for a handful of ice cubes to wrap in the cool rag, but in her haste, she knocked against a large container of chicken broth that had not quite frozen yet. The icy liquid surged out as the top popped off the container, soaking everything on the shelves below it and spilling onto the floor. Frannie reached to grab it, but only succeeded in sending three pounds of frozen peas to join the mess, bouncing on the kitchen floor like little green marbles.

 As she finally got the ice and wrapped it in the cloth, the kitchen door opened. Tony surveyed the pall of smoke, the disaster in the freezer, the charred cookies...and his son, sitting on the floor and screaming bloody murder as he clutched a rapidly purpling lump on his head. He quickly scooped the boy up. The child stopped his shrieking only long enough to hiccup, look pitifully at his father, and start again louder.

 "What the hell is going on, Frannie?" Tony demanded.

 She tossed him the ice pack, "He fell, use this." Frannie tried to tune out the screaming that was eating away at what was left of her sanity in concert with a truly murderous headache. Chicken broth was still spreading, and she grabbed containers of frozen leftovers to try and form little levees to stop the flow. It wasn't working.

 The boy kept screaming.

 Tony demanded again to know exactly how his son had fallen.

 The chicken broth continued to spread.

 The smoke set off another alarm in the living room.

 Maria came downstairs, carrying the baby and asking Frannie to find the vinegar so she could try it on the stains.

 The phone rang.

 Her headache continued to pound.

 Francesca Vecchio snapped.

 Throwing down the rag she had been using to sop up the broth, she whirled to face everyone. "I can't do it!!" She was hysterical, screaming so loudly that both small children stopped their own cries in sheer amazement at her lung power. "I can't watch all the kids for you, Maria, and get beer for Tony, and worry about Benton and Dief, and keep up with Ray, and keep the house clean, and cook, and bake, and...and...and...I just..."

 Her words choked off, and she flopped to the floor in the middle of the peas and half-frozen broth. Sobbing, she pulled her knees up to her chest in a fetal position. She was crying freely now, not caring about what anyone thought as she pressed her knuckles against her eyes, her shoulders heaving violently with each sob. "I just can't be Ma!"

 ***

 "Turnbull!" In response to the Inspector's bellowed summons, Constable Renfield Turnbull leapt up from the desk, accidentally barking his shins on the filing drawer he had been rummaging in. Biting back a yelp in response to the pain, he hopped out from behind the desk, managing to limp to Thatcher's office in record time.

 "Sir!" The Inspector looked up from her computer screen, her expression clearly stating that his promptness wasn't nearly enough to save his life. She was in the mood to verbally decapitate a Mountie. With Fraser in the hospital, he was the only remaining target. He tried to pull himself more to attention, but he knew that it wasn't quite regulation to be standing on one leg like a red-suited flamingo.

 "Constable," she snapped, "I have just gotten of the phone with the Commissioner. Get me every piece of paper in this Consulate that refers even once to Constable Fraser. I want it within the hour, Turnbull, because the Commissioner wants it yesterday. If I can't get it to him, I'm going to have to content myself with giving him your head on a platter. Do you understand me?"

 He nodded quickly. "Absolutely, sir. Everything." She returned to her computer screen, and he took that as his cue to leave. Preferably before she could threaten him with any further bodily harm. Or act on those threats.

 It took only a few minutes to assemble the files regarding Fraser from the filing drawers in his desk. He assumed that the Inspector already had those from her office, and it would take him a long time to search the big room where most of the files were kept. That meant the next logical place to look would be in Fraser's office.

 Carefully maintaining a brisk, all-business demeanor, Turnbull stepped into his superior's office and knelt by the desk. Opening the first drawer, he reached to thumb through the files, then stopped. He really shouldn't be doing this. It wasn't his desk. These were Constable Fraser's private files, in his private office. Then he reminded himself of the look on Thatcher's face. That was all it took to dispose of the hesitation.

 He reached in and pulled out the first handful of files. Each one was neatly typed and double-spaced, making it easy to locate which were the ones he was looking for. Turnbull smiled wistfully as he skimmed over the reports. Fraser had so many adventures, tracking down ruthless criminals and bringing them to justice, hand in hand with the Americans. It was so exciting to work with a man like that, someone he could really look up to as a model of what it meant to be a Mountie.

 Suddenly, the smile vanished as he remembered the image on the front page of the paper that morning. It had been a picture of his friend, his mentor, hurtling out a second-story window, locked together with an American criminal. Sometimes he felt that the Americans didn't know how lucky they were to have Fraser. They had a man who was so dedicated to justice that he would risk his life for anyone, no matter what nationality?

 Yes, the Americans were lucky, but he would be even luckier to survive if he didn't start working on getting these files together. He took another handful from the drawer, checking each tab to make sure it was a reference to one of Fraser's cases. As he did so, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Someone was standing in the corner of the office in an RCMP overcoat. Turnbull jumped to his feet, wide-eyed. "Constable! I'm so glad to--"

 He stopped, feeling himself blush. It was only Fraser's empty overcoat, hanging off the skeletal structure of the hat stand in the corner. "I'm sorry," he babbled, "I thought you were Constable Fraser! I mean, I know you're not, because he's in the hospital right now. Actually, you're not anyone. You're a coat." He started to sit back down, then an odd whim came over him, and he turned back, pulling out Fraser's chair so that he could sit facing that hat stand.

 "Now, I know you're not Constable Fraser," he admitted, "but I was wondering if you could act as sort of Fraser-by-proxy. Or by coat, as it happens to be, as you are one of his belongings, if not the actual person." Turnbull paused a moment, then sighed. "Actually, you're just something to talk to. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind filling in for him in that respect. Just pretending for now, that you are Fraser, and I....well, that I am me, I guess."

 The coat made no objection. Pleased, Turnbull went on, motioning to the files he had removed. "I'm really sorry for this, sir. I know that you have a way you like your things arranged, and I don't mean to be snooping. But, well, since you're indisposed at the moment, the Inspector has asked me to retrieve your files. You do understand, don't you, sir? Of course you do. You're a very understanding person."

 He smiled, leaning forward eagerly as he began to relax. "I don't mean to embarrass you, sir, but that's one of the things that I must admit I have really begun to miss around here. As much as you spend time with Mr. Vecchio and his family, you and I still have our fun, don't we, sir? Watching the curling matches and the hockey games, talking about home...." That last word seemed almost to stick in his throat, and he quickly continued. "Anyway, you're the only one I can do that with, sir. Mano a mano, Canadian to Canadian, if you understand me. No one else seems to have any inclinations to spend time with me off-duty."

 Turnbull ran a hand through his short, sandy blonde hair. These last four days had been rather lonely without Constable Fraser. He thought back, trying to remember if he had spent leisure time with anyone else since coming to Chicago. He hadn't. In fact, Fraser had been his only friend since the accident.

 It had been a little more than a year now since that accident. He had been a member of the Musical Ride, given that vaunted position as a reward for his exemplary record. Among the top three scholars in his class. Medals and commendations for his work in the field. A bright manner and eager attitude that had served him well with the ranking officers. Then one day, during rehearsal, a friend's horse had spooked and bolted. Turnbull had given chase, finally leaping from his mount to halt the frenzied animal and save the young rider's life. Unfortunately, though successful, he had been kicked in the head rather severely during the rescue.

 Shortly after being released from the hospital, Turnbull had been re-evaluated and sent down to Chicago, where they had promised he would 'fit right in'. On reflection, he supposed he had fit right in with Fraser. It was the Americans and Inspector Thatcher that seemed to become sharp with him at a moment's notice. He didn't quite understand why, but he continued to do his best to please them, being as loyal and devoted as possible to his nation and the RCMP.

 Fraser understood that. Fraser was the only person who really did. He really knew what it meant to wear the uniform, to see the red and white flag snapping in the wind and feel deep pride for a nation that the Americans tended to dismiss as 'quaint'. "I...I really do miss you, sir," he admitted. "I'm hoping you'll come back soon."

 He took a deep breath. His throat was tightening, and he was at a sudden loss for words. "I just...I just want you to recover quickly. To just...just..."

 It was as though he had been physically punched. Ever since the accident, he had been operating off the assumption that Fraser was going to make it. Fraser always made it. He could do anything. Now, a tiny voice had slipped through, and that tiny voice had asked a treasonous question. _But what if he doesn't._ That possibility brought everything crashing down around Turnbull in a hail of shattered illusions.

 What if he didn't make it? What would happen? They'd bring in another Mountie, but would he be like Fraser? No, he couldn't be. Then Turnbull would be alone. Not for one day, not for four days, not for a few weeks or months. He would be alone forever.

 "Just don't die." The words bled out in a hoarse whisper, and something inside the young Mountie cracked. He slumped forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. "Don't die."

 ***

 Lieutenant Harding Welsh parted the slats of the venetian blinds on the glass walls of his office. He had a pretty clear view of the entire squadroom, and it was more than enough for his needs. Sipping at his coffee, he contemplated what to do about what he saw. Welsh had his 'suggestion' from his supervisor, but at this point, he could either take it or leave it.

 If he chose to take it, a certain Detective Ray Vecchio would be exceedingly annoyed. When that particular member of the Chicago PD was exceedingly annoyed, everyone within twenty miles or so knew it. This was not the best of options. On the other hand, what he was watching was just the tip of the iceberg if he chose to leave it.

 The usual maniac action of the station's 'bullpen' as it was called, had roughly doubled since the shooting. Not only was there a triple homicide to contend with, but this was rapidly turning into a very sticky international mess. It was a mess that was not benefiting from having Vecchio in the middle of it.

 Vecchio was already acting like a bull in a china shop. He had practically bitten Elaine's head off when the coffee was its standard level of repulsiveness, literally thrown a bag of evidence at Huey, and generally struck fear (or at least aggravation) into everyone within earshot. Welsh cringed when he imagined what the man would do if faced with a reporter. He really didn't need another homicide.

 His decision was made. Opening the door, he stuck his head out into the din. "Vecchio! My office!"

 The wiry Italian tried to wave him off, "Just a second, sir, I'm -- "

 " _Now_ , Detective." For a moment, Vecchio looked about to consider arguing, but Welsh speared him with a look that immediately informed him of the utter foolishness of such an action. Dropping the stack of reports he had been holding with a loud thud, the Detective gave a martyred sigh and trudged towards the Lieutenant's office.

 Welsh shut the door behind him, then took another sip of his coffee as he looked at his subordinate. The man was an explosion waiting to happen. He stood there tensely, long arms laced tightly over his chest, eyes daring anyone to come between him and his injured partner. The Lieutenant reflected that it was a pleasant change to see the cop so fiercely loyal about anyone, even if it was that odd Mountie. Unfortunately, that bond that fostered such loyalty was posing problems right now.

 He sipped again from the styrofoam cup, then set it on his desk. "I imagine you want to know why I called you here."

 "Yes, sir." The words were terse, clipped. In those two syllables, Vecchio had clearly revealed his tightly bottled rage and frustration, and unknowingly cemented Welsh's choice.

 "I've been talking to the head office about this case. I don't have to tell you that this is a hell of a mess, Detective, or that when the manure impacts the windmill, we are going to be standing right there to get it." He circled behind his desk. "When this happens, every officer on this case is going to be stalked by so many paparazzi it'll make Princess Di look lonely. Do you understand that, Vecchio?"

 Vecchio shrugged. "Yeah, so, happens all the time. Look, I'm no rookie, sir. I know what you do...'no comment', 'no comment'," he spoke the words in a mocking tone, then paused and grinned devilishly, "and if they keep it up, they eat the mike."

 Welsh sighed and ran a hand over his receding hair. There was no delicate or easy way to do this. "That's why I'm pulling you from this case."

 There was a moment of stunned silence. Vecchio's jaw dropped. He blinked twice. Then he exploded. Gesticulating furiously, he advanced on the desk. "You're _what_?!! The fuck I'm getting off this case! Those sons of bitches are getting ready to feed the public a load of shit on my partner, and you expect me to sit around and issue jaywalking tickets? No sir! This is _my_ partner, _my_ friend, _my_ case!"

 The Lieutenant simply rode it out, waiting until Vecchio was finished. When the storm seemed to have passed, he leaned close to the Detective, looking at him sympathetically. "Listen, Ray, I know the Mountie's your friend. We all like him. But you are not going to help him by going out and busting heads, or by making the rest of this department miserable." He stood up again, "Now, the rest of Chicago has not conveniently stopped committing crimes because we happen to be a bit busy. I've got a nice juicy liquor store knock down for you, the whole thing's on tape."

 "You want me to take a _robbery_ , sir?" Vecchio's tone was cool now, but his eyes still burned.

 "I really don't care what you take. You're off this case. Don't make me take you off the force."

 There was a long pause, then a simple nod. "Yes, sir."

 Welsh clapped the other cop on the shoulder. "Good man. Elaine's got the robbery info for you. You can give Gardino what you've got done on the shooting." Vecchio did not reply, he just shrugged off the big hand and turned, walking back out into the squadroom like a man on the way to his own funeral. Or perhaps the funeral of his best friend.

 ***

 Ray felt destructive. He felt damned destructive. If he had his way, he would systematically demolish every square inch of the goddamned bureaucratic police station. After that, he would then locate the nearest member of the news media and forcibly insert the bastard's microphone up his ass until it came out his nostrils. 

 One lanky arm lashed out, smashing into the tiny Statue Of Liberty figurine on his desk. Lady Liberty flew into the wall and shattered. Her severed arm and torch rolled lazily back to settle near the foot of the desk.

 For a moment, Ray half expected a white nose to poke out from under the footwell, curiously inspecting the broken plastic for chocolate or cream filling. As he realized that was not going to happen, nor was there a man sitting nearby in immaculate red, ready to gently chastise him for his temper, the Detective felt something twist inside him. 

 How could Welsh do this to him? Didn't the bastard understand...he _needed_ this case! He had to do something to avenge Benny, to fight for him somehow. Ray was no idiot. He knew he could do little against the vast machinations of the Chicago PD, the FBI, the RCMP, and the international media. Still, he could at least offer himself the comforting illusion of some small contribution.

 He wasn't like Ma or Frannie...he couldn't just sit there hour after hour, staring helplessly at his friend as Benny hovered on the threshold between life and death. This wasn't like the last vigil he'd spent at the Mountie's bedside. To Ray's surprise, he actually found himself longing for that time, painful though it might have been. A bullet in the back was so simple, a straightforward matter of surgery and recovery. It wasn't all this brain shit, this uncertainty, this terrible, mind-twisting waiting.

 A coffee mug joined Lady Liberty, and Ray felt the anger build. He swept up the files in one furious gesture, stalking a few paces across the bull pen to slam the documents down on Gardino's desk. The other Detective looked up at him in surprise and irritation. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Vecchio!?" 

 "Your case." The rage and frustration dripped from the words like acid.

 Confused, the curly-haired Italian opened the first folder, his eyebrows raising in surprise at what he saw. " Hey, isn't this the Mountie case....?" 

 "Always the observer, aren't you, Louie." Ray was already back at his desk, pulling his coat from the back of his chair.

 "What am I supposed to do with it?" 

 Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his coat almost violently, he kept his back turned to the other man. "Shove it up your ass for all I care. It's not my case any more." His long fingers fumbled with the buttons, and he cursed as he realized how badly his hands were shaking. God, he was a mess.

 He ignored Gardino's questions, trying to pull himself together. Dammit, he was a cop! Benny was a cop! These things happened in their line of work. Ray forced himself to think of all the men and women he knew on the force. Welsh, Huey, Gardino, Besbriss, his old Lieutenant, Kelly, and dozens of others. They were good people, all of them.

 His eyes closed, and he imagined them lying bloodied on the hard concrete of a school basketball court, just like Benny. It could happen to any of them. They were all cops. They had all taken the same oath. They had understood the risks and chosen the life. Benny wasn't exempt any more than he was, there was nothing that made him special or different, deserving of some cosmic shield against ill.

 Bullshit.

 Benny was different. There was something about him, a kindness that shined in the dark, gritty world of the inner city. It often exasperated the Detective. He often wondered how a man could so shrewdly second-guess the workings of a twisted mind one moment, then show such sincere shock when a citizen littered. At the same time, it endeared the Mountie to him. He felt like a big brother, guiding Benny through the jungle of Chicago's streets, trying to protect him from his own trusting heart.

 Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes again, looking at the folder remaining at his desk for several seconds before recognizing it. It was the robbery. It was his new case.

 Almost as though he was watching the actions of another man, Ray reached for the manila folder. His hand had not even touched the paper when he was interrupted by the ringing of his telephone. He picked up the receiver, cradling it in the crook of his neck. "Vecchio." 

 The voice on the other end was laden with sadness. "Detective Vecchio, this is Doctor Von Trott. I've been taking care of your wolf at Pet Keepers Animal Hospital." 

 Ray's mouth was suddenly drier than week-old bread. "How is he?" 

 "Not well, I'm afraid. You recall that I informed you of his perforated bowel in our earlier conversation..." 

 "Didn't you fix that?" 

 "Well, yes, Mr. Vecchio, but I'm afraid that closing the perforation did not remove the contaminants that had already escaped. Your wolf has developed a massive infection in his abdominal cavity. We're doing everything we can, but I have to tell you that there's a very low chance of survival with something of this magnitude. We're already seeing a very high fever, as well as several other complications." His voice softened. "He's in a lot of pain, Detective. Perhaps you might want to think about...." 

 "I said I'm not going to kill him." His voice surprised him with its cold steadiness.

 "Don't think of it as killing him, Mr. Vecchio. It's really an act of mercy, considering..." 

 " _No_ means _no_." Without waiting for the vet to continue his murderous suggestions, Ray dropped the phone on the cradle, strangely satisfied by hanging up on the man. He stared at the telephone for several seconds, then turned and walked out of the station.

 Benny was dying. He couldn't do anything about that. Dief was dying. He couldn't do anything about that, either. No matter how much he wanted it, he was helpless to heal their bodies. Yet while they lay in the sterile world of a hospital, their names and reputations were being dragged through the mud. That he could do something about. He resolved that he, Detective First Grade Raymond Antonio Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department, was going to do anything he had to do to get back on this case.

 Even if he had to cross the 49th parallel.

*** 

 The young man leaned back in his chair, twirling the spear of dill pickle between his fingers like a majorette's baton.   He had yet to touch the thick ham sandwich that lay on his plate, heavy gobs of melted cheese oozing languorously out from beneath the soft, fresh bread.  Grabbing his soda, he took a long gulp as he considered his position.  He looked to all the world like a highschool kid, unkempt and misplaced in the high-class lunch spot. "Junkie, huh?"

 "Possibly."  Francis Parker raised his napkin, dabbing his chin clean from a drip of his Ruben's thousand island dressing.  "Obviously, there is some sort of financial output that we can't account for.  A first-class Constable like Fraser could afford far better, that goes without saying.  For him to live there, that means the money is going somewhere else...and that so much of it is being expended that he feels it is worth his life."

 Chad Howell's eyes widened.  "His life?"  The younger man took a chomp out of the pickle, his next words muffled around the mouthful.  "What do you mean?"

 The anchorman smiled slightly, but it was a cool, almost contemptuous expression.  "Maybe you didn't notice, Mr. Howell, but I can assure you that the Constable's neighborhood is not the most conducive to long life and good health for white law-enforcement officials."  He paused, taking a sip of his drink.  "Unless you're playing ball with them somehow."

 Howell's face lit up with understanding.  "Like buying their drugs."

 "As I said, that's one possibility.  I'll be going to the hospital after we're finished here.  If Fraser was taking anything, it will show up on his blood tests."

 "But aren't those confidential?"

 "To most people, yes."  His tone made it clear that this was not a matter he was willing to elaborate on, and for all his headstrong brashness, Howell understood that.  Parker saw that, and felt a small spark of hope.  Perhaps this boy wasn't a complete waste after all.  He was arrogant and whiny. He had all the journalistic finesse of a sledgehammer. Yet he did have connections in the business, and if he respected his senior journalist, Parker might just be able to use him.  He smiled again, allowing a bit more warmth.  "I was curious about your theories...what brought you to the apartment?"

 Howell picked up his sandwich, opening the bread to stick a finger in the stone-ground mustard spread over the thinly sliced ham.  "This mustard has chunks."

"They're mustard seeds.  Just eat them." 

The boy looked suspiciously at the condiment for a few more seconds, then apparently decided that Parker was not out to poison him.  Dropping the bread down on the meat again, he took a large bite.  A look of pleasant surprise came over his face.  "This is good!" 

Parker's dark eyes flickered with a light spark of mischief.  "It should be.   That's homemade bread...thirteen hand-ground grains, honey, and herbs.  The ham there is Smithfield, a Virginia ham that has been famous for over three hundred years.  The cheese is imported Havarti.  And the 'chunky' mustard is a German import, produced from a centuries-old recipe." 

Howell's face registered shock, and he looked at the food with a new respect, as if afraid to take another bite.  "Shit.  How much did this cost?" 

"Don't worry about that.  This is a business luncheon, a write-off for me." The anchorman waved a hand to encompass the café's upscale clientele.  "This is where the big boys play, Chad.  You're going to have to get used to things like chunky mustard and funny leaves in your salad if you want to go anywhere.  And you are also going to have to do something about your table manners." 

The young man's face darkened.  "Hey, Dad, I appreciate the lunch, but I don't need a lecture about my elbows being on the table.  I'll play ball with you, and I think we could really land a great story if we go this together, but I'm not your kid, your trainee, or your dog."  His eyes met Parker's directly, unintimidated and angry. 

Parker nodded.  So, the boy wasn't a pushover.  He had his pride, a line he wouldn't allow himself to be pushed past.  Good.  The comment had been deliberately patronizing, deliberately provoking, and it had told him exactly what he needed to further calculate exactly what young Mr. Howell could do for him.  "Fine.  You want to be treated like a pro, I need professional-level help from you.  Why were you at the apartment?" 

There was a long pause, then finally, Howell seemed to decide that his pride was not mortally wounded and that he had earned the older man's respect. "I work the classifieds down at the Chronicle.  Lady came to me yesterday...Mrs. Pomputis, her name was.  She wanted to post an ad for a dog, a Peke.  Seems hers was Alpo for some bigger mutt a couple of months ago." He took another bite and continued, talking past it.  "I didn't pick up on the link until she said it was a wolf, and I was like, hey, wasn't the dog that got stabbed in that school thing a wolf?  Then she said the guy who owned him was a Mountie, and it all just popped into place.  I sweet-talked her, told her I didn't want to see some other little ankle-biter whacked, and she gave me the address." 

Parker had lost all interest in his lunch, looking intensely at Howell. "You're telling me Constable Fraser's animal has been previously suspected of attacking another pet?" 

Howell shrugged.  "That's what she says.  The cops told her it was some nutcase psycho dog catcher, but she's pretty sure it was White Fang in the apartment next door.  Why...you think we can run with that?" 

He nodded.  "I want you to go down to City Hall while I'm looking into the blood test reports at the hospital.  See if there are any priors on this animal.  I want to know if he's even peed on a public fire hydrant.  If he has, I want copies of everything...every memo, every judicial order, transcripts of the court proceedings...all of it.  Do you think you can do that?" 

"Sure."  Finishing the first half of the large sandwich, Howell licked a lingering spot of mustard from one finger.   "What about you?  I mean, if the junkie thing falls through, how do we explain where the money's going?" 

Parker shrugged, unconcerned.  "I've got several theories." 

"Like what?" 

"Like a handsome young Mountie who was stationed up in the Northwest Territories, secluded in the armpit of civilization for years at a time. Some Eskimo girl knocks on his cabin door one day, and to him, she looks better than a Playboy centerfold.  Nine months later, he has himself child support to pay, or he gets his precious Dudley Do-Right image shattered."  Parker swirled one of the crisp, sweet-potato french fries into the sauce from his Ruben. 

Howell considered the scenario.  "So you think he's got a kid stashed someplace?" 

"Perhaps.  If it's not drugs, it's almost certainly blackmail of some kind. Maybe not a child, but someone has something they are holding over him, whether it's an addiction or a secret.  It's up to us to find out what that something is." 

***

 "Yes, sir. Of course...I understand completely...no, sir, that won't be a problem." Inspector Thatcher cradled the phone in the crook of her neck, her hands busily tapping at a computer keyboard. It was the position she had spent most of the past several days in, and her body was shrieking its protest. To the man on the other end of the telephone, however, she seemed efficient and fresh, ready to follow his orders without the slightest hesitation.

 The man on the telephone was no ordinary superior, this was the Prime Minister. Charming but hard, and effortlessly aware of his great power, he had personally called the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, emphasizing the importance of the call. When Turnbull had told her who was calling, the exhausted woman had nearly crawled under her desk and cried. However, she had forced herself to pick up the telephone, sounding cool and completely in control of the situation.

 He was calling, like all the others, to talk to her about Fraser. The Prime Minister congratulated her on her handling of the situation thus far. He then expressed sympathy about her unprepared encounters with the American media, assuring her that she had dealt with them as well as could be expected. Then he had grown more serious, making it clear that she was not to say another word to them that had not been screened and prepared by the RCMP. Their public relations situation with this was dicey to say the least. The Mounties were Canada's single most recognizable symbol apart from the flag itself. The news that one of their officers had been accused of recklessly endangering the lives of American children had given their PR people a severe chest pain. He had asked Thatcher to please send him copies of all the cases that Fraser had been involved with since he had come to Chicago, as well as her personal observations of the officer.

 Her personal observations were confused to say the least. She had only met the man a little more that three weeks prior, and she wasn't sure exactly what he was. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever met, but that wasn't something that the Prime Minister was particularly interested into, and that had absolutely nothing to do with his work. What he wanted to know was what made the Constable's mind tick. All she could tell him there was that he seemed to function by a code of honor that most people had abandoned with the round table and damsels in distress. He was willing to stand up to authority for the strangest things, but most of the time, he was respectful to the point of being servile. The methods he used to fight crime walked an incomprehensible line between precise obedience to the RCMP manual and wild, unbelievable tactics. How was she supposed to explain his habit of chasing suspects across rooftops, or tasting just about anything to find a clue?

 In short, all she could tell him about the inner workings of the Constable's mind was that she had no possible clue as to the inner workings of the Constable's mind. 

 As she spoke, she was typing a report to the Commissioner General, explaining the status of her current dealings with the American and international media. What she wanted to type was that they were camped outside her door and wouldn't leave her the hell alone, but she didn't think that was quite what he wanted to hear. So she sugar coated her words in bureaucratic metaphor, both to the Prime Minister and the Commissioner, hiding that she was _this_ close to abandoning her commission and running away to Tahiti.

 Finally, the Prime Minister was satisfied, and he thanked her with politician's sincerity before hanging up. Slowly, Thatcher lowered the phone to its cradle, staring at it as though it were a fearsome beast that might any minute leap from her desk and attack her. It wasn't too far from the truth. 

 She hadn't left her office for over fourteen hours, the evening, night, and morning blurring into one long haze of coffee and telephone calls. Damn Canada with its six time zones...no matter what time it was in Chicago, she was practically guaranteed that someone somewhere in her home nation would consider it a reasonable time to call. She would answer. Thatcher had been on the phone and computer practically non-stop, helping the RCMP do what it could to prepare for the nightmare descending upon them. 

 Her neatly tailored navy blue suit was badly wrinkled, a splatter of white-out staining the lapel. She felt grimy and disheveled, unfortunately aware that her makeup had long since migrated south, her dark hair fallen flat. Her eyes felt dry and bleary from the hours staring at a computer screen. Her back and knees were sore from sitting, and her head was obstinately refusing to commit a supreme act of mercy and simply fall off. Needless to say, she was not in the best of moods. 

 Slowly, Thatcher lowered her pounding head into her hands, her precisely manicured fingers massaging slow circles at her temples. Her feelings about Constable Fraser were beginning to become quite clear. She hated the man. She hated him with every aching fiber of her body, hated him for being so damned obsessed with his fairy-tale ideals of law and order that he had gotten them into this mess. 

 She reached for her coffee mug, taking a long sip of the lukewarm liquid. The brew was burnt and bitter, and she winced at the taste. One thing she did miss about Fraser was his skill with a coffee maker. This stuff that Turnbull had concocted could strip paint. Nevertheless, she made a face and finished the contents, knowing that she needed the caffeine. As she began to set the empty mug down on her desk, the door suddenly slammed open, causing her to startle and drop the mug. 

 Angry, she looked up, ready to nail Turnbull's idiot ass to the wall. Only it wasn't Turnbull standing in front of her desk, tall body tensed and clearly ready for a fight. It was Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD. 

 Thatcher's eyes narrowed dangerously. She had been ready to eviscerate the next American she saw. At the moment, Vecchio was looking like an extremely good candidate. Her voice was cold as a Yukon winter's night as she stood, looking frighteningly regal and authoritative despite her exhaustion. "May I help you, Detective?" 

 He leaned forward, planting his hands on her desk to look her square in the eye. "Yeah, you can. I need something." His tone was insistent, tinged with an anger bordering on desperation. 

 "I'm assuming what you need is help with your manners, Detective." 

 Vecchio took a step back, his eyes flashing at her sarcasm. He matched it in his own harsh Chicago accent. "No, actually I was coming over to borrow a bottle of maple syrup." 

 She sat down again, retrieving her mug and wincing at the small stain on the carpet. "Sorry, Detective, we're all out. I suggest the Shop N Save." 

 "Oh, I've been there," he replied sardonically, "they're fresh out, too. Seems to be something of a shortage of anything Canadian in this city recently. Maple syrup, deaf wolves, guys in red suits...."

 "Is there a point to this, Detective, or have you just come here to annoy me?" 

 "Yeah, there's a point. The point is that in case you haven't noticed, Inspector, Benny's getting his ass chewed off in the news lately. In the last twenty-four hours, he's gone from Superman to Ted Bundy. In another twenty-four, there's gonna be a mob outside that hospital, wanting him tarred, feathered, and shipped back up to Tukeeyaktak, or wherever the hell he's from!" Rather than growing louder, his voice had lowered, his eyes meeting hers belligerently. 

 She met him with equal intensity. "As a matter of fact, I have noticed. I simply fail to understand why you're here, Detective. The Chicago PD has received all the information they needed concerning the Constable, though frankly I don't see why you would need it. In nearly every single case, you were his partner in crime. It's your country, Vecchio, your media. I don't see how I can help you."

 "You can let me on this case." 

 Thatcher stood, stepping around her desk to stand nearly toe to toe with the cop. "There is no case. Not for us. American crime. American victims. American soil. American media. Under the jurisdiction of - at last count - four American police precincts, the American FBI, and the American Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. You're an American, Vecchio, you don't need help from me." 

 "And Benny's Canadian." He leaned close, "So are you, although I can't understand how the two of you could have come from the same country."

 "That makes it our public relations mess, but it doesn't make it our crime. I would have thought as a cop, you would know a thing or two about jurisdiction. It's your case, so why the hell are you here? I want it straight, Vecchio. No maple syrup, or any of your other bull." 

 "You want it, I'll give it to you. Welsh has pulled me from the case. I want in on the Canuk angle."

 She rolled her eyes, "With your sparkling personality and infinite tact, I can't imagine why he wouldn't want you on such a delicate case." 

 The Italian grew angrier, stabbing a finger at her. "I'm not one of your coffee boys, Inspector. I don't have to take any of your shit. I came here to ask you to help me save Benny's ass, but if you don't want to do anything about that, fine. I can do this alone if I have to." 

 Thatcher grabbed a notepad that lay on the desk, thrusting the note-covered paper at Vecchio. "My life has been a living hell the past four days. I have drunk gallons of crappy coffee, pulled twenty-hour shifts, and eaten so much cheap take-out Chinese that I am in danger of turning into a lo mein noodle. I have every member of the Canadian government, up to and including the Prime Minister after me. I am being harassed twenty-six hours a day by your damned media. In short, Detective, I am doing everything I can to help Constable Fraser and the RCMP regain their reputation." 

 He pushed the paper aside. "You're fetching papers and passing the PR shit that the big guns feed you. Somebody has to go out there and pound pavement, kick some heads in to find out what the fuck is really happening. I can do that. But I need somebody with connections, somebody who can tell me what is happening before I have to go out and read it in the fucking newspapers." 

 "I can't do that, Detective, and you know it! I'm under orders as an officer of the law, and I"

 "How convenient!" Vecchio pushed forward, his prominent nose nearly pressed against hers. "Listen, I know how things are with you and Benny. He's a damned good-looking guy, and you're not half bad yourself. You've been busting his ass since you got here, and because he doesn't have the balls to tell you when you're being a bitch, you've gotten away with it. He has fetched and carried for you, but now that he needs your help, you're going to hide behind the skirts of the RCMP. You're terrified that someone might think that you were helping him because there's a woman somewhere under that chunk of ice you pass off as a heart! You're willing to watch him get fucked while you sit here, all safe and sound with your rules and regulations!"

 Lightning-quick, her hand flashed out, striking Vecchio across the cheek with an open-palmed slap that resounded through the office. "You're _way_ out of line, Detective!" 

 He rubbed at the mark, smirking. "Hitting close to home, Inspector?"

 "Shove it." 

 "Tsk, tsk, how un-Canadian." 

 Thatcher almost hit him again, but she stopped herself. "Listen, Constable Fraser is a fellow officer. I don't want to see him go down any more than you do, but I am not about to jeopardize my career over this. I have worked too damn hard to get where I am!" 

 The cop looked at her as he might something off the bottom of his shoe, then turned and walked to the door. Placing one hand on the knob, he looked back at her. "I just hope it's worth it." 

 She almost let him go, but at the last moment called out. "There is no case." 

 "So you told me." His words were harsh, biting.

 "That doesn't mean that you can't be granted access to Canadian resources as a gesture of cooperation with your country." 

 He stopped, looking slowly back at her. "Is that Canadian for 'I'll help you'?" 

 "It's exactly what I said." She held his gaze for several seconds, then a small smile lifted one corner of the cop's mouth. 

 "Don't worry, Inspector, I won't tell."

 Thatcher frowned. "Tell what?" 

 "That there really is a heart in there." 

 ***

Frannie sipped slowly at the hot chocolate, careful not to burn her mouth on the steaming liquid.  A froth of whipped cream left a soft white mustache on her upper lip, and she smiled as she wiped it away.  She snuggled deeper in the afghan  wrapped around her shoulders. Tucking her legs underneath her body, she looked at her older sister.  "You didn't have to do this, you know, Maria." 

Maria reached out and ruffled the younger woman's hair teasingly, grinning. "Hey, you deserve it, kiddo.  Besides, I don't think I've ever seen Tony move that fast." 

Both women laughed at the remembrance.  After Frannie's bout of hysteria, Maria had lowered the boom on her husband, insisting that he pull his weight with the household chores.  They had left him in the kitchen, scrubbing forlornly at the burnt cookies still adhered to the baking sheet.  He had been a truly incongruous sight, standing at the sink in nothing more than his underwear, an old tee shirt, and one of Ma's floral aprons.  It was a sight that Frannie had never imagined seeing, and it was almost worth all she had gone through. 

She dipped one finger in the cloud of whipped cream and touched it to her sister's nose.  "Maria, do you remember when we..." 

Maria laughed.  "God, Frannie, how could I forget!  I thought Ma was going to kill us for it!" 

"Or Ray." 

"Poor guy, wrong time, wrong place." 

"Wrong suit!" 

Frannie's breaths were coming in desperate gasps between her laughter now. "He couldn't have known...poor Ray...on his way to his first date and he walks in on the whipped-cream fight of the century!  The look on his face when I...Oh, Lord, I hit him right in the...."  Her words were lost in another attack of hysterical giggles, and she only managed to wave a hand, indicating the area where her unwittingly well aimed jet of whipped cream had impacted her older brother. 

She scooped up a dollop of cream, flicking it at her sister, who only barely ducked to avoid it.  The white blob flew past Maria, splattering against the mirror.  Frannie poked a finger at her sister crossly.  "Look what you made me do!" 

"What _I_ made you do?!  You threw it!" 

"And you ducked!" 

Shaking her head in exasperation, Frannie pushed the blanket aside and walked over to the mirror.  The cream would come off easily enough with a little glass cleaner, but she carefully pulled off a small picture that had been taped in one corner of the glass.   She looked at it wistfully, gently using the tip of one finger to wipe away a tiny droplet of whipped cream that had spattered on it. 

It was a picture of Benton, one that she had snapped unawares while he was talking to her brother.  She had tried getting pictures of him before, but he was always so stiff in front of a camera, looking at the lens like most men would peer into the barrel of a gun.  This photo had captured him as he really was, standing in a pool of bright sunlight that made his blue eyes shine with kindness and intelligence.  His face was animated, in the middle of one of the Inuit stories he so enjoyed telling, and a rare smile had brought dimples to his cheeks. 

Her fingertip traced the outline of his face, and she impulsively brought the photo up to her lips, kissing it lightly.  Lipstick left a print on the glossy surface of the photo, but she didn't care.  Frannie felt her sister's hand on her shoulder as Maria assessed the image.  "He is kind of good looking, isn't he?" 

She tried to smile. Somehow, though, the expression wouldn't come.  "I guess so." 

Maria snorted.  "You guess so!  I'm not blind, Frannie...you've been swooning at his polished little Mountie boots ever since he got here!  Every time he comes over here, you're 'can I get you a drink, Benton,' 'can I peel you a grape, Benton,' 'can I get you in bed, Benton.'"  She heard her younger sister gasp, and rolled her eyes.  "Don't think I don't know all about your little stunt with the lingerie, either.  Damn that was brazen!  You've got it bad, Francesca Carlotta Vecchio...you've got it really bad." 

Frannie turned away, biting her lip, her dark eyes burning angrily.  Her sister's tone softened, and she came around in front of her sister, gently lifting her chin to look into her eyes.  "Hey, I didn't mean to upset you.  You've got a guy who's almost worth it for once, baby, I don't blame you for going for him."  Seeing the tears begin to form in Frannie's eyes, Maria pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her in a protective embrace. "It's okay, kiddo...go ahead and cry..." 

Cry she did.  Loud, heartbroken wails and hiccuping gulps for air soon left the front of Maria's blouse a sodden mess.  She didn't protest, though, just smoothed Frannie's dark hair, rocking slowly back and forth.  "God, I'm sorry about this, Frannie.  Just once, you deserve a decent guy." 

"Benton..."  

The word was muffled, but Maria understood.  "Yeah, I know. He's a decent guy...even a great guy.    But he's not your guy.  He's Country Mouse, you're City Mouse.  You'd die without someplace to plug in your hot rollers, and he thinks that dinner means something you slaughtered with your own teeth."  She sighed and looked up at the ceiling.  "Break my sister's heart, then jump out a window.  Great going, Fraser." 

Frannie pulled back angrily.  "It's not his fault he got hurt!" 

"Hey, I know that.  He just does that kinda thing a lot.  You don't need that.  You need a guy who's got a stable job with a low mortality rate.  A doctor or something...then you can keep Benton as a friend, and your husband can put him back together." 

This brought a tiny smile to the younger Vecchio's face.  "Or I can marry Benton and get a doctor as a friend." 

Maria laughed.  "You haven't listened to a word I said!" 

"Nope."  Frannie blithely agreed to her complete lack of attention.  Then her eyes fell on the picture, and a sadness came over her again.  "Do you think he's gonna be okay?" 

"Hell, yeah." Maria waved her hand dismissively.  "The guy's like Superman. Leaps out of tall buildings in a single bound.  He'll bounce back from this in no time." 

Frannie started to answer, but was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.  Holding up a hand to pause her, Maria picked up the receiver. "Vecchio."  There was a pause, and she frowned, "Slow down, Ma, I can't understand a word you're saying!" 

The sound of Ma Vecchio's panicked voice was clear to Frannie even from across the room, and she felt her heart clutch as Maria's olive skin turned a sickly shade of white.  Her hand went to her mouth, and she began trembling, watching in horror as her sister spoke with the hysterical woman on the other end of the line.  Maria's voice was soft, her eyes wide. Clearly, the news was something terrible, something that had shaken her badly.  Frannie felt as though the room was closing in around her. The air had become a heavy, crushing thing. 

"Ma, is he...can they....no, no, of course not....I wouldn't...yes, Ma...we'll be there...we're on our way."  Numbly, Maria lay the phone back down on the cradle, then turned to face her. 

Seeing the look on her sister's face, Frannie nearly screamed, but could only manage a weak whisper.  "Oh God, it's Fraser, isn't it?" 

She nodded, her body beginning to shake so violently she had to sit down.  "That was Ma," she whispered.  "Benton's dead." 

 ***

Ray burst from the elevator doors at top speed, nearly knocking over a young nurse as he ran towards room L13 in the ICU ward. He cursed Thatcher for her cowardice in electing to stay at the Consulate, even as he envied her position. She would get the confirmation of the Mountie's death as a phone call. He would have to be there, see the cold, still face with his own eyes, know that this was forever. 

He turned the corner into the hallway that Benny's room branched off of. Doctors and nurses were moving in and out of the doorway to L13 with urgent, tense looks on their faces. Ma was nowhere to be seen, and he threaded his way through the carts and traffic towards the door. 

He started to slip through the door, but a tiny nurse grabbed his arm as he went past, her light, almost angelic voice surprisingly firm. "I'm sorry, sir, you can't go in there right now." 

"I'm his partner!" 

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Then as...partners, you're Mr. Fraser's legal next of kin?" 

Something about the way she said it made Ray realize how his statement had been mis-interpreted. "Not like that! We're cops! I'm his best friend, dammit, let me see him!" 

The grip on his arm didn't budge, though Ray knew that if he had to, he could shake off this little sprite without a problem. "I'm very sorry, sir. You need to stay out here for now...I'll let you in to see your friend as soon as I can. I promise." 

He started to protest again. Benny was dead already, what was the big deal about letting him see the guy one last time? Then a doctor's shouted order from within the room caught his ear, and he stopped, feeling a surge of hope. The Doc had been asking for some kind of drug. Ray couldn't even begin to pronounce the name, nor did he have any idea what it was for, but one generally did not give drugs to a corpse. There still must be some flicker of life in the Mountie, a thin thread of possibility that they were trying to grasp. 

Suddenly, he remembered something, and turned to the young woman. "Where's my mother?" 

The pale skin between her eyes creased in confusion. "Your mother?"

"The woman who was in there with Fraser." 

Understanding dawned in the nurse's eyes, and she let go of his arm, motioning him down the hall. "She's down there, in the waiting room. You might want to talk to her...she was there when he arrested." 

Nodding quickly, Ray strode quickly down to the open door of the waiting room. It was a near-mirror of the one in which they had first waited to hear news of Benny's injury. The only difference he could see was the addition of a middle-aged black man sprawled in one of the plastic chairs. His filthy clothes reeked of cheap alcohol as he slumbered, hat pulled down over his eyes and limbs tossed loosely to all sides. Ray shivered. This was not a place he had wanted to revisit any time soon.

Ma had been pacing from one side to the other, a rumpled, tear-sodden handkerchief clutched to her mouth. When he appeared in the doorway, she stopped and ran to him, wrapping him in a desperate embrace. "Raymondo, you're here!" 

He hugged her back tightly, then stepped back, putting his hands on her shoulders to look her in the eyes. "What happened, Ma?"

She turned away, twisting the handkerchief in her hands as if she was trying to wring away the hurt. "I was talking to him...just sitting there, watching him sleep, telling him stories...I know how much he loves stories. The doctor had come in a little bit before and given him some medicine," her eyes flashed angrily, "he said Benton was doing better. He said they could wake him up soon! But I was watching him, and the machine that watches his heart suddenly stopped going beep-beep-beep." Her hands mimed the regular pattern of a healthy EKG readout. "It started just going crazy...be-be-be-be-be-be-be!" Fingers fluttered crazily, showing a pattern that seemed almost a vibration rather than a heartbeat. 

"Did you call the doctors?"

"Of course I called the doctors! I called them all right away!" She seemed offended at his question. "They came, and they were all running around him, but the beeping had stopped - it was just a line- and he was turning blue! Santa Dio, Raymondo, he was turning blue!" The handkerchief came back up to her face again, and she started to sob, her round shoulders shaking. "They made me leave, but I heard them! They said his heart had stopped, that his brain was failing! He's dead, Raymondo, I know it!" 

"Oh, Ma..." He wrapped his arms around her, guiding her gently to the couch. His chest felt tight, and he clung to the thin hope he had heard in the hallway. Benny had to live, and he had to be okay. Ray closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, the hard-bitten, cynical Detective prayed. Not simply repeating words at Mass, not an 'Oh God' uttered under the heat of a gunfight. True prayer. He prayed that he hadn't heard a last-ditch attempt to save a man already gone. He prayed that if by some miracle, his friend did survive, that he would still be the man he knew. He would almost rather the Mountie die outright than live with severe brain damage that could dim that brilliant mind or twist that optimistic personality. 

"Ray?" The voice was thin and frightened, and he looked up. Frannie and Maria stood just inside the door. Frannie's pretty face was tear-stained, but she seemed beyond tears now, pale and trembling. His older sister looked little better, though she was clearly putting every ounce of her strength into appearing strong for their younger sibling. 

Pushing aside his own fear and worry, Ray forced himself into action, caring for his family. A feeling of deja-vu assailed him, the painful memories of nights when his father had come home drunk and angry, lashing out against his family in his alcoholic haze. It had been too much like this. Holding his feelings inside, being the brave one, the man of the family. Wiping his sister's face, consoling his mother, getting them coffee and cocoa and promising that everything would work out in the end. Strong words battling stronger helplessness. The omnipresent smell of alcohol from the drunk in the corner compounded the intensity of the memories. Finally, it was too much for the cop to handle. 

"I'm gonna go check on Benny." The lie came smoothly, and he managed to keep everything calm and together until he was out of the waiting room and around the corner out of sight. 

Everything dissolved, and he stumbled towards the men's room, his tall form shaking violently. He barely made it in, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. His body heaved as he threw up the three cups of coffee and two donuts that had been all he had consumed that day. Even after his stomach was empty, he continued to retch, the nausea washing over him in thick waves. He couldn't do this. He just couldn't do this again. 

Ray didn't know how long he knelt there, but it seemed like an eternity before he could pull himself unsteadily to his feet. Walking with the uncertain steps of a young child, he headed to the sink and ran the cold water. He pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, dampening them under the frigid tap and wiping the sweat from his face. Cupping his hands, he gulped a mouthful of water and spat it out to rinse the foul taste from his mouth, then looked at his face in the mirror. 

It was the face of a man who was beyond exhaustion, dark bags sagging beneath the large green eyes, two days of stubble darkening his cheeks and chin. The eyes that looked back at him were haunted, darkened with a sense of foreboding. 

Only four days ago, his world had been a fairly stable place. Then three days ago a young man had gone on a rampage. A brave Canadian had placed himself in the line of fire to save the lives of eight children. A pane of glass had shattered, and events had begun an unstoppable spiral towards hell. It seemed incomprehensible that so much could have occurred in the space of a mere three days. Seventy-two short hours. Benny could probably even rattle off how many seconds. 

Taking a deep breath, Ray splashed another handful of water on his face and grabbed some more towels to dry the cool droplets from his skin. Ma and the girls would be starting to worry now. He had to go back. 

By the time he walked back into the waiting room, Ray was the picture of composure, no hint of his inner struggle visible in his eyes or face. He was surprised to find a fifth individual in the room, a tall black man in green medical scrubs who was talking to Ma and his sisters. Frannie looked up as her brother entered. She was smiling, but it was a tight smile, the smile of a woman reaching desperately to find anything funny about a terrible situation. "Ray, this is Fraser's doctor...you'll never guess who!"

Pulling up a chair, the Detective took a closer look at the doctor who had come to talk to them. He was black, trim but not skinny, with an average-looking face and a thick goatee that showed no sign of gray. His dark eyes were humorless, suggesting a man who was not just delivering bad news, but would be hard pressed to smile under any circumstances. A stethoscope was draped over his neck, and he met Ray's gaze unflinchingly, clearly not at all intimidated by the cop's brusque manner. This man was confident, and Ray liked that. Ray leaned back in his chair, lacing his long fingers behind his head. "Dr. Kevorkian?"

Maria smacked him lightly on the shoulder in annoyance. "Dr. Benton." 

The name didn't seem as much amusing as morbid to Ray, but he forced his mouth to curve upward slightly on Frannie's behalf. "Cute." 

Dr. Benton opened Benny's file, shuffling through several papers. "Dr. McCormick is off today. He asked me to take his case load as a personal favor." 

"We thank you, Doctor," Ma assured him. 

"So...he, uh, didn't make it." Ray confirmed, his voice flat. 

"Actually, he's stable for now..." the doctor began.

Frannie screamed. The sound made both Ray and Dr. Benton wince, but Ma and Maria seemed close to the same reaction themselves, hands tightly pressed to their mouths and eyes bright with thankful tears. The drunk simply snorted, changed position, and resumed his cacophonous snoring. Ma waved her hands eagerly. "Tell us! Tell us!" 

"According to his charts, his intercranial pressure had been steadily declining over the past twenty-four hours. Looks like Dr. McCormick had decided to try and bring him up. They'd eased up on his meds, added a mild stimulant. His brain just wasn't ready yet. Activity did increase, but the additional pressure re-started the bleed. It was a chain reaction...more bleeding, higher pressure...higher pressure, more bleeding." 

Ray frowned. "That caused the heart attack?"

Dr. Benton nodded. "His brain was sending irregular signals to the autonomic nervous system. Put him into V-fib." 

"V-fib?" Maria questioned. 

There was a pause, and Ray got the impression that this was the least-favorite part of Dr. Benton's job, and that he wasn't at all comfortable translating medicalese into layman's terms. "His heart is supposed to pump. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release. V-fib is short for ventricular fibrillation. The heart is quivering, thousands of little tremors every second, but no actual contractions. The blood can't circulate. After a while, it stops. The patient dies. Thankfully, we were able to put the heart back in it's normal rhythm."

Frannie looked over the tall doctor's shoulder towards the hallway. "Is he awake now?"

"No. Like I said, his brain isn't ready. Because of this attack, I've had to actually put him further under." He skimmed over several notations on Benny's chart. "Higher dosages of most of his meds, including the paralytics and barbiturates that are keeping him comatose. That should give him a chance to heal from the initial injury, as well as from this incident." 

"So he's gonna be okay?" 

"Maybe. The drugs should prevent this from happening again, but they're very hard on the patient. The side effects can be fatal if they're used for too long at too high a dosage." 

Ma gasped. "Fatal!" 

Dr. Benton sighed. "We aren't going to go that far, Mrs. Vecchio. He's got ten days. In ten days, he should be healed enough for us to bring him up slowly."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "And if he's not?"

"Then we'll have to bring him up anyway. More than ten days, and the drugs will start to cause brain damage on their own." 

A babble of questions erupted from the Vecchio family, and Dr. Benton fielded each of them professionally and completely, although with a definite air of exasperation. In the corner of the room, beneath the filthy and ragged clothes of the old wino, his mind sober and sharp despite the pall of cheap bourbon that hung on his body, Francis Parker listened. 

***

 ONE WEEK LATER 

DAY 10 

***

__

 Chicago Chronicle:

"Mountie's Actions: Heroism Or Homicide"?

__

 New York Times:

"Investigators Question Mountie's Motives"

__

 Washington Post:

"Senate Questions RCMP Regarding Chicago Shooting"

__

 Miami Herald:

"Questions Mount In Shooting Investigation"

 ***

 The expert laced his fingers together and shook his head sadly as he looked at the camera. "It's a throwback to the kindergartner who leaps out the window playing Batman. They think they can fly...their motives are good. Even heroic. But they don't have a plane, so they fall, and they get hurt. This man did not have the training for that situation, and his good intentions didn't help Jason Pittman any more than a bathtowel cape helps that child to fly." 

 The talk show host nodded her agreement. "Thank you, Professor. Now, let's see what our audience has to say." She held the microphone towards the first member of the audience who looked like he might have something interesting to say, and he leapt to his feet, beaming with self-importance at being chosen. 

 Leaning over the microphone, he bellowed his opinion. "I think that Mountie was _way_ out of line! He's Canadian, and he had no business thinking he knew better than American cops what was good for American children in an American city!" The audience cheered their approval.

 ***

 "I don't like to see people get shot either," the talk radio star leaned back in his chair, "but suppose someone starts pumping lead here in the studio? I'm not going to go running out there, I'm going to call the cops! If my wife gets cancer, I'm not going to get out the Ginsu knives and start operating on her...I'm going to call a doctor! There are some things that you leave to the pros, and life-and-death hostage situations are one of those things."

 ***

 "And more on the ongoing investigation into Constable Fraser...come with us as we talk to those who knew this unusual individual." Brief, soundless clips from the interviews that had been conducted with Mr. Mustafi, Mrs. Garcia, and Mrs. Pomputis. Then back to the studio and Parker's trustworthy face.

 Parker held the camera's gaze for that one last, crucial second, then the nightly news promo was over. He had another half hour before he was on camera for the six o'clock, and he hoped to get a hold of Howell. They'd been thinking about the possibility of bringing Vecchio into this, and Parker liked the idea. It might not fit directly with the school shooting, but Vecchio was the Mountie's unofficial partner, and he smelled just as bad. A dirty cop always sold with the producers. 

 Tonight they were blowing the lid on the wolf. It had taken a while, but careful digging and judicious compensation of a number of underpaid civic employees had revealed the truth. Not only had the animal been suspected of attacking and killing Mrs. Pomputis's pet, but several other neighborhood animals as well, not all of whom had been recovered with the crooked Animal Control officer. 

 Then there was the matter of the court record, which revealed that he had previously killed at least one other animal and attacked an unknown number of humans. Not to mention the hospital record of his owner receiving four stitches for a 'dog bite' shortly after the animal was ordered destroyed as 'vicious'. That order had never been carried out.

 What would Chicago have to say about this animal in their schools with their children?

 ***

 Chad Howell kicked up his heels on his new desk and grinned at the new nameplate he held in his hands. He was still in a cubicle, still down with all the little worker bees, but he was moving up in the world. Classifieds were a thing of the past, a bad memory to be forgotten in the light of his new fame. This story had moved him onto page A-3, with the editor promising front page coverage and his own column if he kept it up. 

 He pulled a coin out of his pocket and tossed it in the air, smiling at the way it reflected the light as it spun. It was a Canadian quarter with a Mountie on horseback on the reverse side. Given to him by a college pal, he had kept it for luck. He believed his friend when he told Chad that it was lucky to always carry something from another country...impresses the ladies, he had said, because it makes you project worldly vibes. 

 Bull. He knew know why the quarter was lucky. It was lucky because it had a Mountie on it, and the Mounties - the prim and proper, dirty as shit Mounties - were his ticket to the top.

 ***

THE NEXT MORNING

DAY 11

***

 He'd almost gotten used to it. 

 At first, visiting Fraser had bothered him deeply. The sickly pale skin and the implanted lines and wires reminded him a little too much of the Frankenstien movies that had frightened him as a boy in Winnipeg. Renfield Turnbull remembered the first time he had come to see his superior, how he had to leave the room after only five minutes, shaking and nauseous. Over time, he had learned to focus on the things that were familiar, to allow his imagination to project a face that was full and rosy with health upon this sunken white shadow. Even the grotesque projection of the ICP bolt and the myriad invading needles could be overlooked now, and he had begun to visit more and more often. 

 Strangely, it was almost easier to talk to him this way. He didn't have to worry about what Fraser thought, about whether or not it would seem professional to talk to him as a friend. During the past week, the young Mountie had spent at least an hour every day in Fraser's room. They had 'conversed' about everything from the weather in Alberta to the new Zamboni purchased by the Toronto Maple Leaves. 

 Here, in the safety of the hospital room, Turnbull had been free to be himself, even confiding that his friends in the Academy had called him simply "Rennie". He had shared the Yukon jokes that he had learned for Fraser but been afraid to tell before. He had admitted his anger with the press, confessing to twice 'accidentally' disconnecting a reporter. He had laughed many times, and once even cried. For once, he could be a young man like any other, confiding in a buddy, ignoring the iron constraints of the red serge that bound his words and deeds every other moment of his life.

 Many times during those long chats, he had almost felt as if Fraser were listening. As if he understood what it was like to be judged so quickly by others. Just because they tried to be courteous and helpful, people considered them to be easy marks. Almost as though having manners meant trading in feelings. 

 Despite that, Rennie wasn't completely ignorant of the reasons behind people's contempt of him. He knew that something was different since the accident. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was harder to concentrate. To focus on a task, he had to focus completely, excluding any other thoughts or distractions. Once, he had been the show-off of the Musical Ride, the man always tossing a few trick riding maneuvers into practice. Now, his balance was often unpredictable, and he occasionally tripped and fell over his own feet. Emotions that he had once been able to hold in check without a moment's thought now burst free beyond his control.

 Still, he had done all he could to overcome that. He had spent hours in therapy, finally being allowed back onto the force. Every day, he struggled to be friendly and to fulfill his duties beyond expectations. He smiled and nodded. He fetched coffee and files. He turned a deaf ear to the people laughing behind his back...and treasured each time that Fraser offered him that kind, genuine smile for a job well done. 

 Holding his Stetson in his hands, Rennie settled into the chair at Fraser's bedside. "I talked to the doctor again today, sir. He said they'll be waking you up in the next few days, and then they can take a look-see and tell how you're doing. Isn't that wonderful, sir?"

 He paused, then looked both ways and leaned forward conspiratorially. "They say there might be brain damage, but I personally don't believe a word of it. I know how it is to get a little bump on the head myself. They didn't think I would even live, and here I am." Rennie chuckled. "Doctors. Nice enough fellows as a whole, but oh, sir, those prognosis of theirs are a hoot." 

 Smiling warmly, he lightly patted Fraser's shoulder. "You're going to do just fine. You'll wake up, get all the kinks straightened out, and be back at work in no time."

 The only answer to his boisterous words was the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the respirator. Slowly, the smile began to fade from Rennie's face. It seeped out of his eyes first, then drained away until he sat slumped by the bed, looking at his boots with a shame-faced blush. "Yes, sir, I do know better. After all, not everyone does bounce back from these things. Nothing to do with whether you're a good Mountie or not..." A glow of hero-worship flickered in his eyes, and he stole a glance upward for a moment. "If that were the case, this never would have happened. You're the best I've ever worked with, sir. And I don't say that lightly."

 His fingers twisted at the hat's stiff brim. "I've actually been getting through this by being you, sir. I know that probably sounds a little silly, and I guess it is. It's just that the Inspector is a tad stressed by all this, and she and your friend Mr. Vecchio get into these long, loud disagreements all the time. You always know what to do when that kind of thing happens...so I've tried to kind of step into your boots, so to speak." 

 A genuine smile teased at one side of his mouth. "Detective Vecchio asked me for my identification this morning when I mediated their little bagel dispute. Who would ever have thought things could get that heated over lox, eh?" His head rose, and Rennie looked right at Fraser's closed eyes, his own shining with pride. "He said that I was 'freaking him out' because I was acting so much like you, sir. I think that's the biggest compliment anyone's ever given me." 

 He paused, and when he realized that he had again begun to fidget with the hat, he placed it on the bedside table. He knew that he had to tell Fraser what he came here to tell him, and beating around the bush like this wasn't helping anything. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. "Of course, I really don't think it was the lox that had the Inspector so distressed. It was probably the phone call she got this morning." 

 Rennie looked at his comatose superior in indignation. "I most certainly did _not_ eavesdrop, sir! There wasn't really a need to, actually. The Inspector was rather loud about the matter. It seems that headquarters are sending us another Constable to take your place. Constable John L. Grushka if I recall, sir. She asked me to look up his file." He stood, walking a few steps away from the bed to look out the window. 

 "He seems to be a nice enough gentleman, sir. Rather plain, though. I remember when I first read your file, before my posting to Chicago." His eyes danced, "It was so exciting. First in your class. Medals and commendations everywhere. Tracking dangerous criminals through Yukon blizzards, intricately planned stakeouts, adventures with the FBI...even the case surrounding your father's murder, if you'll pardon me, simply read like an adventure novel. It really reminded me why I joined the RCMP." 

 Sighing, Rennie leaned against the glass, staring out at the city skyline. "Constable Grushka graduated eleventh in his class....which I know isn't anything to be ashamed of. In fact, it's quite the accomplishment. He's spent eight years as an urban crime investigator in Regina, six as an administrative assistant in Ottawa. I suppose that's a very nice résumé for a Deputy Liaison Officer to have, but...."

 For a long moment, he just stared at the city through the window, then abruptly turned, having gathered the courage he needed to defy the RCMP's choice, even if only privately. "I don't like it, sir. If they bring in someone else to replace you, then what happens when you get better? Someone will already have your slot, and they might send you away." His boyish face darkened. "Detective Vecchio said that was the whole idea. That with all this media nonsense, they wanted to 'sweep him under the rug'. They wouldn't do that, though, would they?"

 The continued rhythms of the life-support equipment were his only reply, but he didn't need one. He knew it was true. He knew the RCMP would sweep Fraser under the rug, because Rennie knew in his heart that they had swept him under the rug. Constable Grushka would come in. Fraser - if he recovered enough to remain with the force - would be sent someplace solitary and remote, and life would continue in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

 Continue for everyone else, perhaps. He knew that they could never seamlessly replace Fraser. Even if, by some miracle, this new Constable was every bit the crime fighter...even if he was every bit as kind and understanding of Rennie...even if he worked as well with the Americans, and possessed that special talent of Fraser's for calming the Inspector...even then it wouldn't be the same. It would never be the same, because Rennie would know. He would know that while Grushka sat at Fraser's desk, a good man had been destroyed for an act of heroism. He would know, and he would never be able to forget. Or completely forgive.

 His eyes burned with urgency as he approached the bed again. This time, he didn't sit in the chair again, but rather knelt beside it, crouching so that his face was level with Fraser's. "Please, sir, you can't let them do this. You have got to get better quickly. _Please._ "

 Just like all the times before, Fraser made no move to reply. Not so much as an eyelash flickered. Yet at the same time, Rennie felt as though he had answered. As though a quiet voice had whispered directly to his heart that everything would work out. 

 The young man smiled and rose, picking up his hat from the side table. "Thank you, sir." He whispered. 

 He started to leave, but at the last, moment, he stopped and turned back to face the room. It looked like an indoor jungle. Plants and flowers had been tucked into every nook and cranny. They ranged from the tiny home-grown geranium that one of the hostages had given to the vast bouquet sent by the school board that must have cost hundreds of dollars. There were balloons, baskets, cards, and even a few stuffed animals. Every possible expression of floral goodwill that could be imagined was represented in the confines of that tiny hospital room. 

 Rennie looked inside his Stetson, suddenly feeling foolish for what he had brought. It wasn't anything compared to all of these other things, and he doubted that Fraser would ever even notice it. Still, he had brought it to give to the Constable, and he supposed that if it was lost in the jungle, it wouldn't really matter. He would still have made the gesture. 

 Carefully, the Mountie eased the tiny bit of foliage from the inside of his hatband. It was dry and brittle, lovingly encased in an envelope of waxed paper to preserve it. He had received it from his father on the day he had graduated the Academy, and he smiled fondly as he looked at it. Rennie was certain that of all people, his father would surely approve of him giving it to Benton Fraser. 

 He searched the room for a place to put it, and was near despair when his gaze landed upon the perfect location. With the utmost delicacy, he eased the gift from its paper sanctuary, then raised it to the light. It was thin as tissue, but still perfectly preserved, it's color still rich and vibrant, it's shape still flawless. With a final proud smile at his mentor and friend, Rennie tucked it into the band of Fraser's Stetson and left for the afternoon shift at the Consulate.

  ***

 Inside the hospital room, Robert Fraser stood by the foot of his son's bed. He had watched many visitors come and go, seen and critiqued every gift brought. Most he had scorned, knowing that the expensive floral arrangements were the giver's way of absolving themselves of any further loyalty to the boy. Some he had smiled at, such as the hand-picked bouquet from one of the nurse's little girl's. None had touched him like this last, simple act.

 One perfect red maple leaf, tucked carefully into a hatband.

 *** 

"Heeeeeere comes the choo-choo train...into the tunnel. Open up, sweetie, c'mon." The baby's lips remained firmly closed, and Frannie looked again at the spoonful of strained peas. She had been a train, a boat, a plane, and a helicopter in the attempt to get those peas into her niece, and nothing was working. She decided a more direct approach was needed. "Look, honey," she explained, "Your Aunt Francesca has much better things to do than spend an hour trying to get this jar of mush into you so that you don't wail to your mother that I let you starve. Now, you either eat this, or I'll call Uncle Ray and let him do it."

 The child opened her mouth immediately. Satisfied that she had finally found the proper motivational tool, Frannie fed her the peas, then reached for the jar to get another spoonful. The doorbell interrupted her. Whisking the rag off her lap that was protecting her clothes from returned food, she stood. "I'll be right back," she informed the baby.

 After the accident with Fraser, she had gotten into the habit of checking the door before she opened it. If the person had a TV camera anywhere in the immediate vicinity, they were out of luck. This time, the visitor appeared fairly harmless. He was a young man in his early twenties, his longish dark hair streaked with blonde and his clothes a number of sizes too large. Cute enough, Frannie decided, but nothing special. She opened the door. "Can I help you?"

 The stranger smiled. "Are you Francesca Vecchio?"

 "Yeah, that's me." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Whaddya need?" 

 "My name is Chad Howell, and I'm from the Chicago Chronicle. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about..."

 Howell. She knew that name. This was the hotshot reporter that had been writing all that crap about Benton. Feeling her Italian temper flare, Frannie barely managed to resist the urge to kick the bastard where it would really hurt. Instead, she stepped outside the door, jabbing her brightly painted fingernail into his chest like a dagger. "Listen, you son of a bitch, you'll have to go somewhere else if you're looking for more bullshit for your fucking column. I have _nothing_ to say about Benton Fraser except that he is the kindest, sweetest, most decent man I have ever met, and that scum like you obviously wouldn't know honesty if it bit you in the balls!" 

 With that, she turned on her heel and stalked back inside, cutting off his response with the slam of the door. Once inside, she immediately locked the door, then looked out the window at him. He was looking back with a rather stunned expression on his face, and she grinned, said one more thing, then dropped the blinds. She only hoped he could read lips.

 ***

 Parker didn't even look up as Howell sat down across from him. Actually, he realized, 'sat' was perhaps not the best term. To sit implied lowering one's self to a chair. Howell had come in for a landing, his body language screaming frustration louder than a toddler in a grocery store. The anchorman skimmed the last spoonful of soup from his bowl. "I ordered for you."

 The young reporter looked at his plate oddly, poking at the small, golden brown bird that lay in the center of a mound of rice-like grains. "What is this shit? Chicken?"

 Sighing, Parker reached over with his fork, pointing out the various food items on the dish. "Broiled marinated quail on a bed of bulgar with currants, scallions, coulee of roasted baby carrots, and a garnish of gingered leeks." He smiled at Howell's look of slightly nauseated awe. "I thought it was time for you to branch out beyond McNuggets." 

 Suspiciously, the young man eyed Parker's selection. "What are you having?"

 "Pan seared salmon with a sweet corn chutney and shiitake mushrooms, as well as a side of wild greens in a raspberry balsam vinaigrette." He cut a bite of the succulent fish with the side of his fork, pointing it towards the dark contents of his wine glass. "I have a medium-weight Bordeaux, 1988 vintage. I believe you've chosen a vintage 1996 Pepsi." 

 Howell stopped mid-motion where he had been ripping one wing off the aromatic poultry. His eyes flashed angrily, and he waved his fork at the anchorman, ignoring the bit of bulgar impaled on one tine. "Don't start that with me again, Dad. Just because I don't go for all your gourmet shit doesn't mean I'm not every bit as good as you are."

 Realizing that he had allowed himself to alienate his partner, Parker bit back a sharp retort. He didn't like the younger man at all. Howell was arrogant and ignorant at the same time, a combination that Parker found intolerable. He himself had worked hard on his education, damned hard. It angered him to see someone who had sailed through college squander it that way, not caring to broaden his horizons or elevate himself in society. "You're right, let's not start that argument again. Do you want your 'chicken' or not?"

 With a slightly pouting expression, Howell grabbed his knife and began to saw at the breast. "Yeah, sure."

 For a few moments, they ate in silence, then Parker asked, "Did you do it?"

 "Of course." The reply was muffled by a mouthful of carrots and quail, but his tone sounded vaguely hurt.

 "And...?"

 Howell speared a leek, licked it, and made a face. "This tastes weird."

 Shooting him an impatient glare, Parker sipped at his wine. "Would you rather I flag you down a hot dog from one of the vendors outside?"

 "I'd 'rather' you stop treating me like I'm beneath you." The young face twisted angrily. "Do you want the info or not?," he sneered.

 Remembering the volatile nature of the other man's ego, Parker forced his tone to be contrite. "My apologies. Please, go ahead." 

 "I checked out his neighborhood again." Howell shook his head ruefully. "Damn, that place gives me the creeps...I've never seen so many losers in one place."

 "They aren't all losers. Most of them don't have a choice." His voice was quiet, but there was a tinge of danger. Had the newspaperman been listening, he would have realized he was treading on thin ice. 

 He wasn't listening, however, and he waved his fork casually, a bit of quail skin flying out from between the tines and landing on the damask table cloth. "Hey, man, it's a choice to move to a dump like that."

 "But it's not a choice if you're born there, or if you can't afford any better." 

 "What about welfare...?"

 "Welfare isn't Aladdin's lamp. You can't rub a food stamp and make three wishes, kid. That's not how it works." There was a surprising sharpness to Parker's tone, and it took the other man off guard.

 "Lay off, will ya? I didn't mean it like that." He took a large bite of the bulgar, staring at Parker through narrowed eyes as he chewed. "Damn...why are we so sensitive all of a sudden?"

 "Perhaps it's because you were raised in a three bedroom, Leave-It-To-Beaver house at 556 Courthouse Lane, Red River Falls, Iowa. I, on the other hand was raised in a one-bedroom apartment in the 'losers' district of Atlanta." The reply was quiet and matter-of-fact, which only emphasized its power.

 Howell dropped his fork in shock, ignoring it as it clattered to the floor. "How the hell did you know all that about where I was raised?"

 "I look into my partners. Maybe you should do the same."

 Avoiding Parker's eyes, the young man reached down and retrieved his fork. He wiped it off on the corner of the tablecloth, blushing. "Oh."

 "'Oh' is right. What if I had been a source, Howell? What if I had been your only source, and your idiot mouthing-off about the 'losers' of West Racine had made me decide you weren't worth talking to? What if I had known one of those 'losers', and informed them of your opinion? How many more 'losers' do you think you'd get to talk to after that?" His voice had begun to raise, a rare hint of emotion seeping through his tight control. Parker leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes like embers in the oaken face. 

 Howell reared back, raising his napkin like a shield. " _Okay,_ okay, I get the point! I'm sorry!" He held Parker's gaze for a long moment, waiting until the older man had calmed down a bit. Clearing his throat nervously, he picked at his food, trying to change the subject. "Anyway, I talked to some street people in his neighborhood, and a couple of the prostitutes that work that part of town. Seems ol' Ben's got quite a reputation."

 Parker's thick eyebrows rose. "As a john?"

 "No...well, they didn't say exactly that he wasn't, either."

 "What did they say?"

 Shrugging, Howell gave a disgusted snort. "The street guys musta been reading off the same PR script as damn near everyone else we've talked to. The old boy scout routine...nearest thing to a saint that Chicago's seen in years. I hit gold with one old guy, though." 

 "How?"

 "I picked him out because he had new stuff in his shopping cart. New boots, new coat. Only they weren't like the Salvation Army handout stuff. This was more Eskimo crap, with the leather and the fur and all. Guy said his name was Jerome, and confirmed that the Eskimo clothes had come from our Mountie friend. Here's the interesting part, though...he said he'd tried to beg money from Fraser, and instead of just popping him a buck or two, the Mountie took him to lunch and started chatting him up. Told him all kinds of fables and junk. Jerome says he spilled that he just wanted the cash for clothes and drugs, and Sergeant Preston gave him a hell of a lecture. Finally Jerome gave him the names of his drug suppliers and promised to lay off the stuff for a while, and Fraser gave him the Eskimo duds. 'Course, the bum was lying through his teeth about going clean, but it worked."

 Parker nodded, contemplating this as he swirled the last bite of salmon in the dressing from the greens. "Interesting. And the prostitutes?"

 "They've all seen him around enough. Talked to one girl, went by Amber, who said she'd propositioned him. She hadn't seen anyone going in or out of his apartment except him and the cop who took him to work in the mornings. She figured that even if he didn't go for girls, he didn't have anything going with the cop because he wasn't in there long enough for anything to happen. Miss Amber put two and two together and worked out the Mountie was a bachelor, and that although he was, as she put it, 'disgustingly attractive', he wasn't getting much in the way of the horizontal mambo."

 "Really?"

 Howell grinned at the tone of Parker's voice. "Something surprise you, Dad?"

 He shrugged. "Frankly I was expecting the opposite. He is, as the young lady said, 'disgustingly attractive', and a 'helping' profession - coupled with the romantic mystique of the RCMP and his pure as the driven snow persona - should attract women like mad. I would have thought there would have been a fairly brisk procession of one-night stands, considering we've determined that he isn't currently committed."

 Pushing a pile of bulgar to one side of his plate, the reporter scooped it onto a bit of roll and shoved the entire package into his mouth. "Hey, me too. Talk about terminal blue balls...I'd explode if I went sixteen months as a monk. But I don't think he has."

 "Then he accepted the proposition."

 "She said he didn't, but then she said he did."

 His napkin half-raised to his lips, Parker frowned. "Come again?"

 "She said he took her up to the apartment, but he didn't ask for anything. He cooked her dinner, wrapped a blanket around her, started talking her up like he had the old bum...fables again. She thought, hey, maybe he's one of those guys who gets off on thinking he's romancing a girl before he gets the goods and pays up, so she went with it. He gave her two hundred. Canadian, but big whoop. That still works to over a hundred bucks here in the US of A." Howell leered suggestively, a raised eyebrow indicating exactly the type of things such a bankroll could purchase.

 "Did he ask her to perform any sexual acts for the money?" The question was blunt, clearly delineating that he wasn't interested in juvenile games of innuendo. 

 "Here's where she did that confess but not confess thing. Really weird for a girl who makes her living at this crap. She claimed that she pocketed the dough, then started takin' things off." Howell gave a lop-sided grin of amusement. "He freaked...jumped back, actually dressed the chick up again tighter than my uncle's wallet. So she offered him a couple other ways she could fuck him off. Wouldn't take anything else on her menu. Finally, she says she 'barely' got him to accept a 'hug' as a 'gesture of gratitude'."

 Again, he refused to respond to the heavy double-entendre, keeping his tone cold and clinical. "Interesting euphemism."

 The young reporter didn't pick up on his disapproval and continued, still with that lascivious twinkle to his eye. "I thought so. Little strange, though...I've never seen a whore cover for a john like that." 

 Smirking slightly, Parker met the young man's eyes. "A little extra money, Howell, and they would do damn near anything short of jump off the Sears tower. Is that all you got today?"

 A mischievous smile of triumph lit his face, and Howell leaned back contentedly in his chair. "Nah, I was just saving the best for last."

 "This 'best' is what had you thrown out of the Vecchio house?" 

 The young man's jaw dropped nearly to the tabletop. "How the hell did you know I'd been there?"

 Casually, Parker gestured beneath the table. "There's a fleck of paint on your right sneaker. It matches the spot on the right side of their third front porch step where the paint is peeling. The fiber trapped beneath the sole and canvas of your left sneaker matches their welcome mat...I would assume that you were grinding your feet on the mat while waiting for them to answer the door." Ignoring the widening dark eyes in front of him, he waved a hand upwards. "Also, there is a petunia sepal in your hair. The Vecchios put up hanging baskets of petunias by their front door three days ago. They were in full bloom at the time, so they would just now be beginning to drop sepals."

 Loose strands of hair fell into Howell's face as he shook his head incredulously. "But how'd you know I'd been kicked out? Did that bitch leave marks from her tongue-lashing? Were there insults caught in my nose hairs?"

 A small, smug smile teased at the anchorman's eyes without touching his mouth. "No. I just know that the Vecchios aren't too keen on any member of the press right now. Coupled with your lousy attitude when you arrived, it wasn't too hard to guess."

 Trying to appear unimpressed with the feat of deduction, Howell took another large bite of the bulgar and nodded casually. "Fine. So you know that his slutty sister kicked me out. Can you deduce why?"

 "Honestly, no." He smiled. "But I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

 "Yeah. After I finished with Amber, I talked to some of her friends. Most of them had a similar story. Fraser had picked them up, taken them to his place, given them dinner, a lecture, and cash, and sent them back out. That's what they said, anyway. I hit paydirt with a girl called 'Kitty.' It was about seven months ago. Fraser'd gotten in trouble with some mob guy, Frankie Zuko. His goons had worked the Mountie over pretty good, and Kitty'd seen him headed home. Black and blue, face all cut up." He winced sympathetically. "She went up to see if she could do anything for him, but there was another girl coming out of his place. Kitty didn't recognize her, but she was wearing nothing but this black leather and lace number under her coat. She gave me a description of the little slut..."

 "And it was Vecchio's sister."

 Howell nodded. "Bingo. I tried to talk to her about it, but she wasn't feeling too talkative."

 "I can imagine." 

 Both men shared a smile at this, knowing how they were viewed by that particular family. Howell finished the last of his dinner, then pushed his plate aside. "So, think you can use any of this?"

 Parker contemplated the issue for a moment, swirling the last mouthful of wine in his glass. "I'll see if the women are willing to talk on tape. It'll depend on what they say, though. You and I both know that the chances that he's paying these women for nothing are about the same chances as the Cubs winning back-to-back pennants, but we can't have it come across like he's just giving them a hand up."

 Nodding in feigned professional sympathy, Howell spread his hands invitingly towards the more experienced journalist. "Well, I've been out there digging up a truckload of dirt. What has my esteemed and mighty companion been doing, other than ordering his seared salmon?"

 "Finding out about Fraser's arrest record."

 The dark eyes in the boyish face blinked twice incredulously. "You're kidding me. They've actually booked him?"

 "Twice."

 The expression was half grin of excitement, half gape of disbelief. "Come on! For what?"

 Parker allowed a slight smile, knowing that all of his hard work was about to pay off. "The first one is good, but we can't use it. He was picked up during a raid at the House Of Detention, a S&M leather bar downtown. Apparently, he was even in full uniform...of course, in that place, a cop's uniform just means that you want to be the one on the other end of the dog collar and chains."

 "Shit! That's totally perverted. Why can't we spill?"

 He sighed in frustration. "Because he was arrested in the company of a minor. It seems Constable Fraser's taste in dates runs towards sixteen year old girls." 

 Howell whistled. "Damn, that's like, half his age."

 For once, Parker's dark eyes showed agreement. "A little less than half, technically. He's almost thirty-five."

 The young man made a face. "God, my sister is sixteen. Sick." 

 "I agree. Unfortunately, the young lady is the daughter of a prominent Canadian trade official. He had the entire thing dismissed." The older newsman shook his head helplessly. "Even I know better than to mess with that."

 "Why not nail him too, for cover-up?"

 "Because the case was dismissed, I technically had no right to have found out about it. Also, he can claim diplomatic immunity, and bring up a harassment issue over his daughter because of her minor status." 

 Clearly pouting, Howell slumped down in his chair, his chin on his chest. "That sucks."

 "Not really."

 Howell's head jerked up. "What?! You nail the Mountie in some sicko leather bar with a little girl, we can't use it, and you don't think that sucks? What are you on, Dad?"

 "Nothing. I just have something better."

 "This I've got to hear."

 Reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Parker withdrew a manila envelope. He thumbed through the contents for a few moments, then took out a glossy photograph and pushed it across the table. "Look at this woman and tell me what you think." 

 She was in her early twenties, her dark, curly hair pulled back into a loose ponytail but still clearly long. Her face was cold but beautiful, with green eyes that seemed to shine with a hypnotic light beneath thick, dark eyebrows. She seemed to be of Mediterranean descent, most likely Greek, her slim body standing about five foot one against the harsh lines of the background. 

 Howell whistled in appreciation. "Good-looking chick. But this is a mug shot...what did she do?"

 More papers came out of the packet. He had the printout of her rap sheet, plus a small clipped section of newsprint that was yellowed with age. The clipping referred to a bank robbery outside Skagway. "Her name is Metcalf. Victoria Metcalf. She and two accomplices robbed a bank in Alaska eleven years ago. One of the men died on the scene, one fled to the States and was captured by InterPol, and Fraser was the arresting officer for her. He tracked her into a blizzard, kept her alive for several days while they were snowed in, then turned her over to the RCMP. She got ten years."

 "Then she's out."

 He nodded, indicating an entry in her file that noted she was a fugitive. "Out and at large. Almost six months ago, she showed up here in Chicago again to check on an old friend."

 The young man's eyes took on a knowing look. "Fraser?"

 "Exactly. Seems the two of them had come to an 'understanding' during that snow storm. Fraser had picked up the money for her while she was in jail...$10,000 in cash from the robbery was found in a metal box under the floor of his father's cabin. It started showing up in Chicago, passed every time by either Fraser or his buddy Vecchio. Things probably never would have been noticed if her accomplice hadn't reappeared." 

 "Thought you said InterPol got him."

 "He escaped. His real name was Julian Chardeux, but he was known as Jolly... the most dangerous of the three by far. Fraser claimed he made an attempt on Victoria's life while she was at his apartment, but neither Jolly's prints nor hers were found, though he also claimed she had been there for three days. Another 'attempt' on her life was supposedly made at the Chicago Zoo. This one is a bit more substantiated...several witnesses saw him chasing her, Fraser pursuing them both. There seems to have been a struggle. Fraser received a cut to his hand, and Jolly was shot in the head at point-blank range by an RCMP issue .38." 

 "Whoa. So Fraser whacked the guy?"

 "He told the State's Attorney that she had confessed the murder to him and claimed self-defense. He even insisted that she would come in and confess to the crime."

 A dark chuckle. "Fat chance of that one."

 "Right. She never showed up. According to Fraser and Vecchio's testimony, she went on to attempt to frame them for a number of crimes, including possession of a large sum of stolen money and the murder of Jolly. The Mountie was even arrested on a Murder One charge for Jolly's death, but Vecchio made bail for him. Quite a substantial sum, if I recall..." He donned his reading glasses, examining the printout. "Ah. Here it is. $150,000."

 "Where would a flatfoot get that kind of cash?"

 "Mortgaged his house, I believe. Soon after his release on bail, Fraser went to the Vecchio house and proceeded to vandalize the entire property. He claims that Metcalf had hidden incriminating evidence and given him a deadline to find it."

 "Did he?"

 "Apparently so. But rather than turning it in to the police, he seems to have agreed to her 'blackmail' and laundered a large sum of the robbery cash into gems. He then followed her to the train station and proceeded to attempt to jump bail and flee with her. The only thing that prevented that was 'friendly fire' from Vecchio." Parker finished his tale and gathered the papers up again, slipping them back into the envelope as he looked at the stunned face across the table.

 Finally, Howell regained his voice, though it remained a hoarse whisper. " _Shit_! What the fuck is this guy doing on the force after all that?" 

 Parker's weathered face twisted bitterly. "Officially, he was exonerated. They decided he was framed for the possession of stolen money and the Murder One charge, and that the others were justified by mitigating circumstances."

 Sighing, Howell let his head flop back in frustration, closing his eyes. "So this one's useless too."

 "Not exactly. There are things that don't add up in the official record. For example, in the testimony that resulted in Fraser being cleared of the bail-jumping charge, Vecchio says that the Mountie was pursuing Metcalf with the intent to capture. Two other Detectives, Huey and Gardino, as well as a Lieutenant Welsh, back this up."

 One eye opened curiously. "Then what doesn't match?"

 A truly vicious cast came to the dark face. "When the incident was investigated, Fraser was found to have been in possession of Metcalf's gun at the time he was shot. At the point that Fraser and Metcalf went onto the train platform, several outside witnesses confirmed that the gun was in her possession, and that he was several strides behind her in pursuit. The only way he would have the gun afterward was if he had caught her once already. By the time Vecchio and the others arrived, she was already on the train and it was leaving the station, requiring Fraser to pursue it at a sprint."

 Howell's face lit up with enlightenment. "Which means, like, he was going with her, because if he had wanted to stop her from going, he could have done it when he took the gun."

 "Exactly." 

 With a crow of triumph, Howell slapped the table, jumping to his feet and ignoring the shocked expressions on the faces of the other diners. "Looks like he's Dudley Dead-Meat after all!"

 Parker just watched the younger man's excitement quietly. He understood the feeling, but time had tempered his own enthusiasm with reality. 

 Every ounce of his being wanted Fraser to go down, and go down hard. Nothing angered him more than this kind of deception. The Mountie was like a master ventriloquist with dozens of people as his dummies. Each of them mindlessly said what he wanted them to say without a single question, but no one saw him pulling the strings. He had shimmied through the cracks and crevices of the law without a moment's hesitation, and no one questioned it. Everyone who had met him repeated the same spiel, identical to the point of being frightening. Whether through blackmail, charisma, fast talking, or simply some form of magic, he had maintained an image as pure as new fallen snow over a heart as hard and cold as ice. 

 The worst part was that this wasn't the first time he had seen something like this. Over his four decades in journalism, Parker had witnessed this duplicity too many times to count. They were always young, always handsome and sweet-looking, almost always white. On the outside, they were perfectly virtuous, welcoming him into their midst as a valued colleague. Then there would be the 'accidental' collision in the hallway. The moment's look of utter contempt. The innocent words dropped here and there that would make the boss second-guess him. The darkness, the hate in the eyes. 

 He had to let them get away with it, to let them think that he didn't know what they were. He had climbed stolidly onward, ignoring the needles of hate they had tried to slip under his fingernails. Now he had made it to the top, and now he had a chance to bring just such a two-faced individual down. He could rip away the mask Benton Fraser had constructed and expose his true self to the world. 

 Nothing could stop him now. 

 ***

An umbrella. Why hadn't she brought a stupid umbrella?

 Civilian Aide Elaine Besbriss cursed in a most unladylike manner as the gray skies seemed to open, letting loose a torrent of water that would have sent Noah running for cover. The same skies had been blue that morning, as clear as she had ever seen above the eternal pall of haze produced by the city. Even the weatherman had been duped by it, assuring her that the front forming over the Great Lakes wouldn't touch the Windy City until the next morning. With what she now felt was extreme stupidity, she had believed him. 

 She had believed him, and now she was standing in the torrential rains outside the 27th, waiting for a taxi. One of the blessed yellow vehicles pulled to the curb, and she gave a sigh of relief as she dashed for it. Elaine was only a few steps away when someone else slipped between her and the cab, stealing her escape route. The face through the rain-spattered window belonged to one of the cops who worked the evidence room, and she offered him a one-fingered salute as the cab pulled away. 

 Her blue shirt was soaked through now, the thin windbreaker she had thrown over it to combat the early May breezes providing pitiful resistance. Miserably, she took hold of a handful of the windbreaker, squeezing out the excess water. Fraser would have held that cab for her. Hell, from the stories Vecchio told about the Mountie, he might even have chased it down the street and leapt on the roof to secure it for her. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen did those kinds of things. Elaine was beginning to suspect that he was, in fact, the last gentleman that existed on the planet.

 A look up and down the street revealed no other empty cabs, and Elaine decided that there was really no reason to stand there and get any more soaked. Better to wait a while. After the five o'clock rush, taxis would be more readily available, and she would only have to make a single quick rush to the curb. 

 As she jogged across the street towards the small café that the precinct's denizens favored, the prospect seemed even more appealing. She'd have some hot coffee, a chance to unwind a little, to talk to the guys without the words 'file' or 'search' ever entering the conversation. Hell, she might even indulge in a donut. She had lost three pounds over the last twelve days just because of the amount of coffee she had been drinking to handle the precinct's frenetic pace. It wasn't as though she couldn't afford the calories. Yes, she would definitely have a donut. With chocolate icing, she decided defiantly. Maybe she would even have sprinkles. 

 She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled open the door, the jingle of the bell sounding like the music of angels to her dripping ears. The scent of coffee and the diner staples of hamburgers, fries, and pizza wafted warmly through the air, and she breathed deeply. Eager to shed the sodden windbreaker, she took hold of her zipper and began to remove the dripping garment. The jacket came open exactly six inches before she promptly zipped it up to her chin again. Her wet shirt had taken on a remarkable degree of transparency, and she didn't think that the guys needed to know what brand of brassier she wore. 

 Thankful that her dark complexion would hide her embarrassed blush, she quickly slid into a seat at the counter. The attendant had enough hair showing at the collar of his tee-shirt to qualify him as the missing link, but a surprising lack of the same on his scalp. It was not the most appetizing sight she had ever seen, but she was too wet to care. He winced sympathetically as he looked at her. "Cuppa coffee?"

 Elaine nodded. "Thanks. Do you have real milk?"

 He grinned, a gold-capped front tooth catching the fluorescent light. "None of that powdered crap here, Miss..."

 "Besbriss."

 "Non-dairy substitute not good enough for you, Elaine? What's next, cappuccino?" Hearing the familiar voice behind her, she turned on the stool and slapped Louis Gardino lightly on the chest. 

 "I'm not that bad, Louie." She smiled at the gaudily dressed Italian, then noticed that both he and his partner were completely dry. Apparently, unlike her, they hadn't been forced into the diner for refuge. "What are you two doing here? I thought you preferred that deli up the road."

 Huey shrugged. "Hey, this is Louis's idea."

 "Gardino?" Taking the stool next to hers, the Detective leaned over in a conspiratorial manner, resting his elbows on the counter. 

 "Better entertainment here." 

 She frowned. "Entertainment?" Gardino's curly head nodded towards the booth in the corner, and she looked where he indicated, curious as to what kind of band or comedian would be desperate enough to play a corner diner for a bunch of exhausted cops. 

 The booth did not contain so much as a sidewalk musician. Instead, all she saw was the top of Detective Vecchio's thinning head over the back of the seat. He seemed to be in animated conversation with someone. Occasionally, his voice would rise in irritation over the babble of voices from the rain-swelled clientele of the establishment. 

 Curious, Elaine gestured towards the corner. "New date not going well?"

 Huey and Gardino exchanged a positively evil grin. "You could say that." The two men motioned her down the line of stools, and she followed, hoping the attendant would see her change of location. She needn't have worried, as he simply slid the cup and saucer down to her new seat. Elaine wrapped her hands around the warm cup and reached to raise it to her mouth, but something on the surface of the brown liquid caught her eye, and she laughed. 

 Gardino looked curiously over her shoulder. "Something funny?"

 "Happy face!" With the delighted grin of a little girl, she pointed at the coffee. There, on top, three small jets of whipped cream had been strategically placed in two dots and a line. Her coffee was smiling. Gardino's face registered something akin to disappointment, and her dark eyes glittered. "What's wrong, Detective? Did you never get a happy face?" 

 He started to answer, but just then all three cop's attention was diverted from the whipped cream art. Vecchio's voice had risen loud enough to effortlessly overpower the other conversation. "Oh, and if we ask them nicely, they'll just give it to us?!" 

 Vecchio's ire seemed to be directed at the dark-haired woman sitting across from him. She had previously been obscured by the booth's high back, but now Elaine could see her clearly. The woman looked to be in her early thirties, her attractive face conservatively made-up, a taste reflected in her tailored, heather-gray business suit. She was slender and seemed petite, though not short, and Elaine reflected that if she were Vecchio, she wouldn't yell at a date like that. 

 On the other hand, her hazel eyes seemed to snap fire at the Detective, a fire that scorched across the room to make the Aide wince, though she wasn't the target. As Elaine took a better look at Vecchio's date, she began to seem familiar. She prodded Huey in the side, leaning close to whisper, "Hey, isn't that..."

 "Fraser's new boss," he confirmed. "Vecchio calls her the Dragon Lady. Her name's Thatcher. _Inspector_ Thatcher." The big Detective put a bitter emphasis on the rank, and she got the feeling that he didn't like her any more than the other man did. 

 The 'discussion' between Thatcher and Vecchio seemed to be growing in intensity, and Elaine watched in morbid interest. Huey had been right. This was the most interesting entertainment she had seen in a while. Thatcher clearly wasn't intimidated by Vecchio's impressive displays of temper, and she seemed to be matching him without hesitation. It was like watching a verbal fencing match...thrust, parry, thrust again. 

 Of course, Vecchio seemed to be using a pole ax to the Canadian's epee, but the effect was the same. The volume of both participants continued to rise, and the problem seemed to focus on a pile of papers in a file folder on the middle of the table. From the sound of things, Vecchio wanted to confront the individual discussed in the papers. 'Rough him up' until he 'coughed up exactly what he told those sons of bitches.' Thatcher was taking exception to his 'medieval American tactics', and pointing out that there was no point in interviewing the man other than to 'add to your juvenile hit list.' 

 Finally, Vecchio stood, lifting the files and dropping them with a resounding smack onto the formica table top. Some of the papers flew out from between the covers of the folder and wafted into the Inspector's lap. He snatched up his coat from the seat beside where he had been sitting, jamming his arms into the sleeves. Elaine winced at the look burning in his eyes, praying that Thatcher would be smart enough to leave him alone. When he was in these moods, you just had to stand back and wait for things to cool off. 

 To her chagrin, Thatcher didn't seem to recognize that rule. She shoved the folder aside, crossing her arms and looking up at the tall Detective, a cold anger in her eyes. "Another tantrum, Vecchio? Why am I not surprised?" 

 Elaine shook her head. Bad move, Inspector. The Italian whirled, his trenchcoat swirling behind him like a cape. Planting both hands on the table, he leaned close into the Inspector's face. "Benny's my best friend," he spat, "but right now, your whole damned country can just go screw itself!" 

 "No thank you." The polite words were filled with more venom than an Indian cobra farm. 

 "No?! Well just wait...you keep sitting on your bureaucratic asses, and someone else will do it for you!" With that parting shot, he stormed out of the diner, uncaring that he held no protection against the driving rain. 

 A silence settled over the patrons of the diner, a silence finally broken by a hushed observation from Detective Huey. "Things are not looking good for the home team." 

 ***

"You know, Benton, I might actually need to thank you for this." Ma Vecchio laughed lightly as she pulled the needle through the pillowcase one last time. It was a needlepoint design she had intended to finish for over twenty-seven years. Unfortunately, there hadn't seemed to be a single spare moment since Francesca's birth, and the project had languished forgotten in the bottom of a closet. Until, that is, she had taken to spending six hours a day in a lonely hospital room, keeping vigil over her adopted son.

 "I haven't had this much spare time in years, Maria has finally gotten Tony to help out around the house, and Frannie has become quite the responsible little homemaker." Ma Vecchio sighed and patted Ben lightly on the cheek, but her slight smile soon faded entirely. She slipped the finished pillowcase into her large purse and closed the flap. As she wound the remaining thread into neat skeins, she spoke quietly with the comatose Mountie. 

 "But Raymondo...oh, Benton, poor Raymondo. He's so worried about you. It makes him angry at everyone, because there's nothing else he can do." She shook her head sadly. "He was like this after he shot you, too. I know you probably didn't notice...you were hurt, and that horrible woman had broken your heart. He came home that first night, and he cried, Benton, he really did. Locked the door so I wouldn't know, but I've kept a key to his room ever since he was sixteen and tried to sneak Irene Zuko in through his window. I went in, and he told me he thought he'd killed you." 

 Ma took his hand in her own, smiling sadly. Like her son, this was a boy who had known hardship before. "He had a bottle. I took it away, but I was so afraid. I knew if you died from that bullet, it would be just like his father, hiding everything at the bottom of the bottle. When Mr. Zuko moved into town, our business failed, and from then on it was all Finnelli's and drink, trying to pretend he still was somebody." 

 Her voice swelled with pride and sorrow in equal measures. "My little Raymondo had to grow up so quickly. He's a hard worker, Benton. Did you know he got his first job when he was ten? He shined shoes on Michigan Avenue after school. That horrible Zuko boy, Frankie, would always come by and ask Raymondo to give him a shine, and always showing off brand new shoes. Raymondo would do it...he was a good worker, but he would never take the money. He would never take Zuko money." She smiled softly. "That was when he started watching the cops. His father hated them, but my boy saw that they did something against the Zukos that his father never could."

 Ever so gently, she turned his hand over in her own, running her blunt fingers over each line and callus. "He admires you, Benton. He'll never say it, but he admires you...and he's a little jealous, too. He's jealous of your father." She paused, shrugging in admittance, "I know, I know...he was never there. Left you and your mother up there with the moose. I tell you, your mother was a saint. I'd have shot the man and moved to Florida the first winter." 

 Her voice softened again. "But he gave you a path to follow. You had somebody to look at and say 'that is what I want to do. That is the man I want to be like.' Raymondo didn't have footsteps to follow. He had to go his own way, and that is never an easy thing to do. He's jealous that you had a path laid out, and he admires how you followed it. The way you can look at people and know their hearts, but not let the bad things in them touch you. The way you never lose your temper, never doubt what is right and what is not."

 Ma's dark eyes shone as she leaned over and kissed him lightly in the center of his forehead. "Don't worry, I won't tell him you're just another man. I know, Benton, I know you have doubts. I see them sometimes in those pretty eyes of yours. Times when Chicago is so very big, and you think you are all by yourself here." She straightened up, her tone becoming a bit reproachful. 

 "You're not. Never, never, never. You can always come to us, Benton. Always. You're my son now, and I will never close my door to you. If you need a place to stay, something to eat, someone to talk to..." A mischievous grin appeared, crinkling the skin around her eyes. "And if you ever are feeling that you need a wife, my Francesca is very willing. If you ever so much as smile at her - and I mean a real smile, where she can see those adorable dimples that I know you have - _she_ will be down on her knees proposing to _you_!" 

 She laughed, but the mirth was short-lived. The atmosphere was too solemn, too inured with fear and uncertainty to allow it to last for long. Ever since the close call a week before, Ma had waited at his bedside in a vigil of fear, always expecting it to happen again. Any slight fluctuation in the rhythm of his breathing or heartbeat sent her running to the doctors, and she had even brought a small crucifix to hang over his bed. Ma wasn't entirely sure Benton was Christian, but she figured that it couldn't hurt. 

 There had been no further scares like the last one, but the doctors had been a little too reserved in their prognosis for her tastes. She had the feeling they were holding something back, and she wanted to know what that something was. More importantly, she wanted to know how that something might affect her Benton. Reaching into her bag for her glasses, she scrutinized the pale form in the bed, trying to see if anything had changed since the day before. 

 He hadn't moved, but she thought that perhaps his color was a little better. At least he wasn't blue any more. Even the improvement she thought she saw was very little, though, and the smooth, little-boy face was looking dreadfully gaunt. She felt along his side, and was horrified to realize that she could make out ribs through the cloth gown. Ma resolved to speak to the doctors about that. The poor man came close enough to starving himself when he was awake. He kept practically nothing in his refrigerator and never took seconds when he came to dinner . She wasn't going to have them finish the job at the hospital. 

 Still, she decided to count her blessings. He was still alive, and the doctors said that his chances of surviving improved every day. For that, she was very grateful. 

 Hearing the door open, she turned to see who had come to visit. She hoped it was that other young Mountie...Renfield, his name had been. He was a kind boy, every bit as gentlemanly as Benton, and she enjoyed the conversations they had held. 

 This time it wasn't him, but a nurse. Ma smiled warmly at her. She hadn't met this woman before, but recognized her from Frannie's descriptions as a familiar face on the night shift. It wasn't hard to pick her out. The woman was every bit as tall as Raymondo, and a good deal heavier. Her hair had been dyed to a rich coal black in defiance of the gray imparted by the same years that had etched lines into her face. That face seemed set in a permanent scowl, and Ma got the feeling that very few patients ever argued with this woman. 

 As she bustled into the room, pushing a small cart of supplies, Ma got a look at her nametag. 'L. Callard.' Mrs. Callard seemed quite shaken by something, anger, resentment, and hurt visible in equal measures in her brown eyes. A sudden wave of fear swept over her, and Ma suddenly wondered if there was bad news. "Is there something wrong?" 

 "Just more of those damned reporters," Callard snapped. "I got rid of them, don't worry." With brusque, efficient movements that told of years of experience, she began to change Benton's IV bag. 

 "Thank you," Ma said, moving back to allow the nurse to come around to her side of the bed and check the various equipment attached to the Mountie. "I don't like those people poking around here."

 This seemed to strike a cord with the nurse, and a strange burst of mixed emotion flashed across her face, but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I can't stand those sons of bitches. Always skulking around, trying to take advantage of people when they're hurt and vulnerable. I hope..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head sharply. "Never mind." 

 The silence hung tensely between the two women for several more seconds, then Callard awkwardly asked, "So, is this your son?"

 "Not exactly," Ma smiled, brushing back one dark curl that had fallen over Benton's forehead. In the two weeks since the accident, he hadn't received a haircut, and his carefully cropped hair had lengthened enough that it was beginning to form ringlets. Personally, she thought it looked charming, but she knew it would be far too unkempt for his tastes. "His family is all dead. My son's a policemen, and they're partners...we've adopted him in a manner of speaking." 

 "Ah." Finished with her tasks, Callard placed the empty IV bags on her cart and wheeled it back towards the door. Her hand was on the knob when she suddenly turned back, almost desperate curiosity visible in her expression. "Mrs..."

 "Vecchio."

 "Mrs. Vecchio. Are..." The nurse blushed and looked away, "this is probably going to sound ridiculous, but what color are Mr. Fraser's eyes?"

 "Blue." Ma cocked her head and stood up, trying to read the other woman. "Why do you ask?"

 "Blue." Callard repeated the word softly, her eyes no longer seeing the room or Ma, but focused completely on Benton. "Is it a very light blue?"

 "No," She replied slowly, "more of a royal blue." 

 "Yes. Royal blue...and when the light shines on them a certain way, they can be almost gray, or almost turquoise, but they are always bright. He's always smiling." Something told Ma that Callard was no longer talking about Benton, and she stood, walking to stand beside the nurse. 

 "Not often." Ma corrected quietly. "I think it's because he's lonely here. He's from Canada, you know."

 "Always smiling and laughing. And singing...he had a band, and he thought he could make something of himself. He had a beautiful voice. You would listen to him forever, and he could talk a snake into buying shoes. But he was so kind. So kind and so brave." Callard's eyes gleamed with tears in the harsh hospital lighting, and Ma gently lay one hand on her massive arm. 

 "Your son?" 

 "Benjamin." She smiled ruefully, swiping at her eyes almost harshly. "Ironic, isn't it. Another Ben. Maybe the name is cursed."

 "He died, didn't he?" 

 "Vietnam. Twenty years ago." Callard shut her eyes tightly, her face crumpling in pain. "I can still see him. He looked...he looked so much like this. Like an angel. His hair was almost black, it was so dark, but his skin was so fair...I could never keep sunscreen on him, and he burned so easily. I...I sent him off to Vietnam with thirty bottles, but I doubt he used one. And blue eyes. Such beautiful blue eyes. Royal blue."

 Ma wrapped her arms around the larger woman, her own throat thick with sympathy. "I'm so sorry." 

 Callard's voice became defensive suddenly, and Ma felt her tense. "He wanted to go. He wasn't like so many of those other boys, out there burning draft cards and flags and everything. Benjamin was so patriotic. He believed it, really believed that he was doing a wonderful thing for the free world. He went, and three months later they called me."

 "To say he was dead." 

 "No." Her tone was bitter. "Missing in action. I didn't know he was dead for another two months. I was on the El, and there was a man standing there holding a poster. I almost passed it, but then I stopped and looked. It was a picture, a black and white picture of a dead boy in the jungle. They had to put a black box over half his face to hide where it had all been burned up, but it was Ben. My son." Her voice choked off, and she shook her head, unable to continue. 

 "My boy is a policeman." Ma spoke quietly. "Every day he goes out, I am afraid he won't come back. I listen to the scanner, and when I hear there is an officer down, I think my heart is going to stop. Raymondo's even been shot...twice. Hurt many times more than that. Each time, I don't think I'll be able to let him go out again, but I know he has to. Someone has to, and if it's not my son, it will be someone else's son. If I ever lost him, though...." She shuddered. "I can't imagine." 

 "You feel like someone has reached inside you and torn out everything. There's nothing left." Her voice was hollow. "The worst part about it was that it was an anti-war poster. Ben had gone out and laid down his life for his country, but those people were using him for something else entirely. Just because of that angel face, they were using him to defy the country he gave everything for."

 "And you're not going to let that happen again." 

 "Never! They want to take his picture while he's helpless like this." She moved to the foot of Benton's bed, looking at him with maternal protective instinct blazing from her. "They want to use those pictures to help destroy him." She paused, then continued again, her voice trembling. "I don't know if what they're saying is true or not. I don't know this man. But I know I'm not going to let them do what they did to my boy. They'll have to kill me first." 

 Gently, Ma smiled, "That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

 "No."

 *** 

THE NEXT AFTERNOON

DAY 12

*** 

They still hadn't replaced the window. 

 Ray looked up through the windshield of the Riv as he pulled into the school parking lot. The jagged edges of the glass were still there in the frame. The hole itself had been crossed with yellow police tape in a futile attempt to muzzle the sharp-toothed maw that had taken his friend. His motions were automatic as he parked the car, his attention completely focused on the wounded building. 

 It would be at least another month before the cops cleared out. In the meantime, most of the students had traded in the three R's for the three S's. Shrinks, screams, and shattered innocence. Their frightened faces were burned into Ray's memory. The sight of the bullish linebacker - who would have easily been able to snap the Detective in two - sobbing freely as he carried the team's wounded water boy. The shy, freckled girl who had never been known to speak three words together...until she led her entire class to crawl under the tables to the cafeteria kitchen and out a maintenance entrance. The reed-thin boy who needed three grown men to hold him back because his brother was still in there. Even to a hardened cop, it was the stuff of nightmares. 

 Squad cars and Detective's private vehicles choked the parking lot as Ray walked towards the school. He flashed his badge briefly at the rookie flatfoot guarding the perimeter, then stepped into the place where the ordeal had begun. 

 The cops, with their tweezers and cameras and forensic experts all seemed to vanish. He could hear the sirens again, the terrified screams and hollow reassurances of the students, the shouted orders of the cops. Standing on the basketball court, looking up towards the window, the yellow tape seemed to vanish. The window was whole again, and behind it he could see Benny, strong and healthy, grappling with a demon in camouflage. The ghostly images of his memory played back their struggle, the sudden, gut-wrenching lurch towards the glass, and the sound of a life shattering with the glass. Then the impact.

 Ray involuntarily looked towards the foul line, where Benny had landed. Only the outlines were there now, white lines on dark concrete. Wandering over, he stared in macabre fascination at the tracings. The one on the left had to be Benny, but the artist had it wrong. The Mountie was a little taller than the line drawing suggested, a little broader across the shoulders as Ray had learned on one occasion when it had taken him a full box of Kleenex to get the red serge to even nominally fit him. Oddly, he smiled at the memory. After all the ribbing he'd given his sister over the years, if Frannie ever found out that _he_ had stuffed a shirt with tissues...

 "Hey, you're Vecchio, right?" The voice intruded on Ray's thoughts, and he turned. The man who had spoken was leaning against the basketball pole, hands in his pockets. Unlike the sharply dressed Italian, this man displayed the fashion sensibilities of a rebellious teen. Faded blue jeans and a gray tee-shirt were tight against a build that was slim to the point of being skinny. Still, he was not sickly, as his arms were corded with wiry muscles. A leather jacket was slung over one shoulder, and even his hair seemed to have gotten into the rebel without a cause look, gelled and sprayed to blond spikes. The only flaw in this image was the thick, dark-framed glasses that seemed too large for the angular face, rimming the blue-gray eyes with Clark Kent incongruity.

 Having caught Ray's attention, the man left the pole and began to walk over, withdrawing a hand from his pocket to remove the glasses. Slipping them in the neckline of his tee-shirt, he extended the hand to Ray. "I'm Detective Kowalski, 54th. The, uh, the guys are tellin' me you worked with the Mountie. Partners, sorta." A lop-sided grin appeared on Kowalski's face, and Ray wondered what exactly 'the guys' had been saying.

 Shaking the smaller man's hand firmly, Ray nodded, forcing down the melancholy attitude that had been forming. "Yeah." He looked around curiously, noting for the first time how few of the cops he recognized. "They bring a lot of you guys over?" 

 Kowalski shrugged. "Dozen, I guess. Pulled 'em from a couple of shifts. I hear they did it at the 33rd and the 14th, too."

 Impressed, Ray realized that there were probably twenty officers on the scene. Clearly, the city of Chicago did not want to appear to be putting anything less than the maximum into an already horrific crime that had developed into a major international mess. Yet pulling that many from any one precinct - including the 27th \- during any one shift would break the back of the work force, leaving them nothing to handle their own problems. "Found anything yet?" 

 "You mean about the kid? Yeah. Lotsa stuff. Not so much on the Mountie yet. Wanna go look?" The other Detective nodded his head towards the school.

 For a moment, Ray almost turned him down. He didn't want to go in there. Never again. He didn't think it would be possible to scrub a place like that clean again. He knew that no matter how much bleach had been used, he would always see the red smears on the tile and walls. Still, he knew that he needed to go up there. He'd called things off with the Dragon Lady, and with Welsh banning him from the investigation from that end, this was the only way he could get anything done. "Sure."

 Each one of Kowalski's movements seemed like a controlled explosion as he led the way into the school, barely contained energy bubbling from him in palpable waves. Wryly, Ray thought that if Benny were here, this guy would exhaust him inside of ten minutes. It had taken the Canadian long enough to adjust to his own expressive nature. Mr. James Dean here would be enough to cause the ultra-reserved Mountie to completely decompensate. 

 Both men had to flash their badges a second time to gain entry into the building, and Kowalski began to narrate the sights they passed. "First shots fired here. Stitched a line of lockers, hit three kids. Single burst, he had it in automatic. Blood spatter and witnesses say he held them there for a couple seconds. Screamin' all this shit about lookin' for his girl. Seems he was dating this girl, but he wanted to go farther than she did, and she dumped him for this football jock." Something about Kowalski's tone suggested that female rejection was a familiar situation, and in a flash of inspiration, Ray suddenly wondered if State's Attorney Stella Kowalski had ever been married to this guy. He knew she was divorced, but despite being a serious babe, she had a definite thing against cops. 

 Ray decided not to pursue it, however, and put his attention back to following Kowalski's narration. "Held a gun to one kid's head, and he told the creep where he'd last seen the chick...Kim. Kim Weaver, I think. Anyway, he sets off, and she's not where the kid had said. Boom, boom, boom." He pointed to a row of bullet holes that had devastated the trophy case. "Still on automatic. Takes out the trophies, then turns on the others again. Same story; where's Kim. He downs four more, and promises to kill everyone if anyone moves, or if they've lied. Puts a bomb up here." Kowalski thumped the top of a locker.

 Frowning, Ray thought back to the day of the massacre. "I don't remember a bomb."

 "Wasn't a threat for long. One of the boys there had the guts to check it out after Mr. Psycho was gone. For all his ammo, he couldn't follow instructions, apparently. He'd botched the detonator, and the whole shebang was disarmed in five minutes by a freshman pulling C's in shop." The two cops shared a small smile at the strange and morbid twists of fate that so often disrupted criminal endeavors. 

 The tour led them to a bend in the hallway, and Kowalski's focus shifted to the floor. "We found prints in the blood. Your Mountie stopped here," he pointed to a place just behind where the hall bent towards the window, "right around the corner. Stayed a while...minute and a half, we guess. The forensic people say they can tell by how much the blood congealed under his boots. Our gunman is around that corner at the end of the hall. He's got Kim up against the jock's locker, tellin' her he wants the ring back, but he's already gone and killed three, plus plugged another four. Still on full automatic. Just sprayed the whole bunch as they tried to run, then kept the wounded, Kim, and a couple others as hostages." 

 Crouching, Ray examined the tile where Benny had waited, looking around from that vantage. There was no way the Canadian could have seen what was happening around the corner from his position. That seemed to support the press's argument that he had rushed blindly into the situation, but the wait, on the other hand, indicated otherwise. He tried to put himself into his friend's shoes -- or boots, as the case might be. If he were Benny, what would he have done?

 The answer did not come easily. On one hand, the Mountie could be almost fanatical about protocol and caution at times. More occasions than he cared to think of, the Detective had been held back from some rash action by the sensible words and firm hand of his friend. On the other hand, however, Benny had been known to pull a few pretty crazy stunts himself. A memory came to mind of an incident where he had played what appeared to the cop to be a game of Russian roulette with a hysterical bank robber who was holding a gun to Ray's own head. It had come out well, but what if she hadn't responded as Benny had calculated she would? People could do crazy things sometimes. What if her bullet had passed a half-inch lower? Then a perforated hat would have been the least of his friend's worries. 

 He was thinking like the press! Ray cursed as he stood, shaking his head as if to dispel the treasonous thoughts. Benny was just not the kind of guy who would endanger a bunch of kids with reckless behavior. Himself, sure. His partner, sometimes. Kids? Never. He moved briskly around the corner, not really caring if his 'guide' followed.

 Ray stopped short as he rounded the corner. The window gaped before him at the end of the hall. Again, the memory invaded his mind...the crash of the shattering pane, the almost slow-motion appearance of the two bodies, locked together as they fell. The impact that had crushed the boy's skull in a burst of bright red blood. Benny's face, reddened with abrasions as he tried for that split second to rise, then fallen helplessly back to the asphalt. The cop closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out. 

 "You okay?" It was Kowalski. Taking a deep breath, Ray opened his eyes, forcing a weak smile as he turned to look at the other Detective.

 "Yeah, fine." 

 Kowalski held Ray's gaze for an awkward moment, then both men looked away. "That's...uh, that's the window." His voice was tight, unsure of what to say. It was a tone Ray knew well from the last several days. When a man's partner was dead, everyone knew what to do. When he was simply wounded, protocol was likewise quite simple. When he was hovering on a strange threshold between the two, and all on live TV...there weren't any rules for that. 

 "That is the window." A long silence hung in the air for several seconds, so oppressive that a young cop who had been coming their way abruptly reconsidered, turned, and left. 

 Finally, it was too much. "So, from here we've got a pretty good picture." There was a forced brusqueness to Kowalski's tone, as he tried to ignore the solemnity of their surroundings and get down to business. "The kids say that there was this crash from the hall, and the creep called for whoever it was to show. The Mountie stepped out, and he seemed to get a real kick out of that. Callin' him Dudley Do-Right, trying to force him to choose which hostage would die first. Then he pointed the gun at the Mountie, and the kids swear that a wolf jumped out from around the corner there." 

 "Half-wolf, actually. His name is Diefenbaker." 

 "No kidding?" Kowalski's head cocked curiously. "Wow. I thought we were just talkin' big puppy here." There was a pause, then the lanky Detective continued. "So Diefenbaker jumps him, and gets knifed up pretty bad. Drops the gun though, and that gives your guy the chance to tackle him. They rumble a bit, then..." His voice trailed off, his eyes wandering towards the window. 

 "Then Fraser slipped on something..."

 "Blood." Kowalski offered.

 "Blood. And they went out the window."

 "Yeah. 'Bout like that." Both men were now standing at the broken window, looking out onto the busy scene below. Neither looked directly down, ignoring the basketball court that lay there. 

 A scuffle erupted near the break in the yellow perimeter tape where the cops went in and out of the scene, catching the attention of the two cops in the window. A woman with a bulky camera hanging around her neck was trying to get in, and the rookie who had checked Ray's badge was trying to keep her out. Ray heard Kowalski snort in disgust. "They've been tryin' to get in here from day one. This one probably says she's got a signed permission slip from the Queen or something." 

 "Press?" It was really an unnecessary question. 

 "Who else?" Suddenly, Kowalski turned away from the opening, slamming one fist into his other hand in an explosive gesture of anger. "Damn!" Ray just watched as the smaller man stalked from one side of the narrow hallway to the other. He stopped, bracing himself against one of the lockers, getting control over what was clearly a formidable temper. When he spoke again, his voice was tight, the anger bubbling just under the surface. 

 "I, uh, I was on a scene like this a while ago. Little kid being held hostage in this warehouse down by the docks. I kinda got on the wrong side of a bullet, and when I got out of the hospital, they hadn't even spelled my damn name right in the papers." He shook his head in disgust. "Man, if that was my partner, I don't care if he was from Mars, I'd be out there kickin' some heads, findin' out what the hell happened."

 Ray felt like telling this young punk exactly what he'd been doing. Putting up with the Dragon Lady and her ridiculous Canadian bureaucracy. Trying to weasel his way around Welsh's ban, pulling in every favor he was ever owed to try and find out information that he normally wouldn't even have to ask for. His own temper began to heat, riled by the audacity of this cop trying to tell him that he wasn't doing enough. "Hey," he warned, "Fraser's my partner. I'm doing everything..."

 "Then how come none of us have seen you around here?" 

 "Maybe because my Lieutenant pulled me from the case _because_ I was kickin' heads?!" Ray's tone was intense, challenging as he stared fiercely into the blue eyes. 

 The look was held for a long moment, then Kowalski looked away. "Oh." He rubbed at his ear in a gesture that suddenly and powerfully reminded Ray of his Canadian partner. That gesture was so typical of the Mountie that he often wondered how it was Benny had an ear or an eyebrow left on that side. "So, I guess your thing here isn't, y'know, totally official."

 "You mean that Welsh would bust my ass if he knew? Yeah." A brief grin flashed between the two cops, a shared acceptance that sometimes you had to break the rules to play the game. 

 They began to make their way back out of the school, walking in silence most of the way. As they reached the stairwell, Ray suddenly remembered what he had found there and stopped short. He couldn't go that way. Thankfully, Kowalski didn't question his sudden course change. The smaller man nearly had to jog to follow the long, rapid strides, but Ray didn't really care. Finally, Kowalski gave in and did jog a few steps, pulling him alongside. "So, the Mountie...does he really, y'know, eat mud and all? The guys were talking..."

 One side of Ray's mouth twitched up in a half-smile. Apparently, he and Benny were getting quite the reputation. "Licks it, yeah. He'll put damned near anything in his mouth." 

 "That's disgusting!"

 "He's Canadian."

 Kowalski seemed to accept this explanation. "You and the Mountie...you guys work together long?" 

 "'Bout a year. I helped him with a case when he first showed up down here, though." Ray reached the doors that would lead out of this hall of nightmares, but stopped. Turning to Kowalski, he fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to him. "I'm not on this case officially, but if you've got anything that you just have got to get off your chest..."

 He let the words hang in the air, and the other Detective grinned in understanding. "Unofficially, of course."

 "Of course. You could call me if anything like that came up." 

 "On one condition."

 "What's that?"

 Kowalski shoved the card into a pocket of his blue jeans. "You find the jerks who are screwing your partner in the papers, you kick them in the head for me." 

 "No problem." 

 ***

 "He can't see me." Constable Benton Fraser leaned down again, waving a hand in front of the Riv's windshield. Inside the car, Ray's face displayed no reaction, as the Mountie had assumed it would have had he seen a hand and red-serge-clad arm reach down from the roof. He tried knocking on the glass, but it had no effect. Although he could feel the windshield against his knuckles when he tapped, there was no sound. 

 Frustrated, he sat up again, allowing his booted feet to dangle over the edge of the Riv's roof. His father sat next to him, a smug expression on his face. "Satisfied, son?" 

 "Not entirely." The younger man's blue eyes displayed the unmitigated stubbornness that would have caused Ray Vecchio - or anyone else who knew him - to simply give up and let him have his way. The man sharing the roof of the Riv, however, had the same mulish streak, and matched Benton effortlessly. Blue diamond to blue diamond, neither able to scratch the other. 

 Finally, it was Benton who sighed and looked away. They had tried this first with Francesca, then Ma Vecchio, then the Consular staff, and now with his partner. It was painfully obvious that it was not a matter of receptiveness, conditions, or will power. He was simply invisible. As the results of that realization passed over the boyish face, his father patted him on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard. There are advantages to a spectral state, you know." 

 "Such as?" 

 A positively impish look flashed in the Sergeant's eyes for a split second, then he stood. For a moment, Benton looked at him in confusion, then suddenly Robert Fraser stuck his arm out into traffic. His son lunged to pull him to safety, but it was too late. A large semi truck passed the Riv closely, slamming right into the Mountie's outstretched arm. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. The truck passed by, and he regarded the limb calmly, flexing his fingers. "Try it, son." He smiled, putting his arm out again, this time to be impacted by a young man in a pickup. "Great fun."

 Benton wasn't entirely sure if he technically still had a heart, but if he did, it was racing. "Don't do that to me, Dad!" 

 "Do what?" A good look at his son's face told him exactly what. "Good grief, Benton, this?" He put it out lower, within range of two small sports cars. 

 "Yes, that!" 

 "Why on earth not?" 

 "Because..." The younger Mountie took off his Stetson, running a hand through his dark hair. "Because it's dangerous." He paused. "Well, maybe not precisely dangerous, but..."

 "Disquieting?" By now, Robert Fraser seemed to have tired of passing through cars and had gone back to sitting next to the other man on the car's roof. 

"As a matter of fact, yes." 

 "I understand. The first time I walked through a wall...well, there's nothing quite like it. Your instincts keep telling you that you're going to smack right into the bricks, then you're through, and there you are." He spread his hands amiably, clearly not seeing how his own flesh and blood could find permeability such a daunting prospect.

 "You just...walk through it?" Benton's voice was skeptical.

 "Just walk through it, son." 

 Benton almost extended his arm, but his hand had barely risen from the car roof when he stopped. His father frowned, but he examined the hand closely, not noticing the look of disapproval. "Are you certain?"

 "Of course I'm certain!" He waved a hand through a stoplight post for emphasis. "Would you like me to go stand in front of the El to prove it?"

 "No, that's won't be necessary. I'm simply concerned about my status."

 "Your status?"

 "Well, yes. I'm not precisely dead..."

 "You're here with me, though."

 "True."

 "And most people sitting on top of a 1971 Buick Riviera traveling at thirty miles an hour would at least get their hair mussed." Sure enough, not a single iron gray nor deep brown hair was out of place. 

 Benton licked one finger, extending it into the air. He didn't feel even the slightest breeze, and so resorted to counting parking meters against the second hand of his wristwatch. "I think he's speeding."

 "What?"

 "You said thirty miles per hour. That is the posted speed limit. However, if you were to look, I think you would find that Detective Vecchio is traveling at nearly forty-five. Clearly speeding."

 The elder Mountie consulted his own watch. "Great Scott, son, you're right!" 

 "Thank you."

 "You should ticket him." Reaching into his belt pouch, his father rummaged to find a ticket booklet. "You'll need your own pen. I seem to have left mine in my other coat." 

 "I can't." 

 The Sergeant looked aghast. "He's putting innocent lives at risk!"

 "I'm aware of that, Dad, and I have told him on several occasions about the need to be more conscientious about his vehicular habits, but he simply will not listen to me. Besides, he can't see me." Benton thumped again on the roof for emphasis. 

 "Oh. True enough." He paused a moment, then seemed to remember his previous line of conversation. "But the point is, son, you're here. Enjoy it while you can. Maybe not a walk through walls, but you're more or less dead! Live it up a little! Kiss that Inspector of yours!"

 Aghast, the younger Fraser turned to regard his father. "She's my superior officer!" 

 Robert Fraser shrugged. "Your mother was once named temporary head of the Inuvik detachment. She and Kate Frobisher had to keep watch over the whole group of us while we were in quarantine over that nasty caribou grease incident. And I did a lot more than kiss her, I tell you!" 

 A bright blush colored Benton's cheeks, but he didn't back down. "That was different." 

 "How so?" 

 "She was your wife, for one. Besides, the commission was temporary. Inspector Thatcher is a career officer. And even if she wasn't..." He trailed off, and his father seized on the opportunity like a wolf after a wounded arctic hare. 

 "What?"

 "I have good reason to believe that she hates me!" The words burst out quickly, and it felt good to finally say them to someone. A feeling of bold defiance that left him almost giddy. 

 "You, son? Ridiculous. You've been the model officer." He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "No, no, she's got it bad for you. Playing hard to get. That's all. You should have seen her last night. Went home and couldn't stop talking about you, even though the only one listening was her fish."

 "What exactly was she saying, Dad?"

 "Oh, that she wanted you transferred to the depths of hell if you ever recovered, and that she wanted to..." He stopped, then realized perhaps he wasn't aiding his cause. "That's not important. What matters is that she was thinking of you!" 

 "I'm her fellow officer and direct subordinate. I'm currently very seriously injured, not to mention the cause of a rather unfortunate public relations dilemma. Of course she's thinking of me." 

 His father remained stubbornly fixed to his opinion. "It's love, son. Just wait."

 "Oh, please." Disgusted and more than a little embarrassed, Benton hopped off the Riv and walked away. His father watched as he disappeared through traffic, still ducking the cars out of habit. As soon as the red serge was out of sight, he rolled over onto his stomach and pounded on the driver's side window. "Hey, Yank!"

 The Detective looked in his direction, and his eyes flew wide as dinner plates. Emitting a shriek that was decidedly unbecoming to a grown member of the Chicago PD, he spun the steering wheel of the Riv and threw the old car into a side alley. He had barely slammed it into park when he was out the door, gun drawn and pointing at the top of the car. The cop couldn't see Robert Fraser standing behind him as he looked around, searching for the old Mountie who had been riding his car. Finally, his shaking hands holstered the weapon, and he leaned wearily against the side of the car, muttering something about bad coffee and not enough sleep. 

 The ghost in question simply set off to follow his son. Best to tell the lad that coma patients apparently didn't get the full benefits package before he tried anything stupid. He just hoped Benton hadn't tried the wall thing yet. 

 ***  

Captain Peter LeMatt leaned back against the wall, his thick arms folded loosely across the broad chest that strained at his Chicago PD SWAT team tee-shirt. "Hey, I like the guy. Never said I didn't. He carries my mother's groceries every Saturday at the Shop N Save for God's sake. Nice guy." He looked around at the other cops in the lunch room. The looks he got from over the styrofoam lips of coffee mugs and the crusts of sandwiches could have frozen Vesuvius. 

 LeMatt was on the defensive, and he knew it. The cops here at the 27th might as well re-name themselves the Benton Fraser appreciation society. In that atmosphere, he knew his opinions were more than unpopular, but damn if it didn't feel good to get them off his chest. The truth was that he couldn't stand the Mountie. Every night, he went to bed hoping that it was all some nightmare induced by bad maple syrup, and every morning, he woke up again to find that red-coated thorn in his side again. 

 Didn't the idiot have his own job? Didn't he have a life? Hell, even LeMatt saw the dispatcher's and secretary's heads turning every time the Mountie passed by, so why didn't he shack up with one of them? Do anything, _anything_ to keep him out of the 27th. Anything to keep him from being more of an embarrassment.

 The last budget meeting had cemented it. For as long as he had been in command, the ex-SEAL had never had any problems obtaining funds and equipment for his team. No one ever questioned them, because they were simply the best. Hostage situation? Suicide threat? Call the SWAT team. That had always been the way it worked. The detectives and beat cops called the SWAT, they responded with their beautiful, state of the art tactics and equipment, and they resolved the situation. Even Vecchio knew that, though he had been at odds with him from day one, when LeMatt - only two hours into his new position at the Chicago PD - had put the detective on report for unprofessional conduct. 

 But not since Fraser. No, now Detectives were handling those things on their own, and the high muckety mucks were starting to question the SWAT budget. They had started talking about 'extending the capabilities' of the regular Detectives instead. It was all Vecchio's fault. 

 He'd had his fingers in all the wrong pies ever since the Canuk got himself transferred down to the Windy City. Within a few weeks, he'd started playing in LeMatt's territory. He'd even had the audacity to get on the bad side of the FBI, suddenly deciding that a foreigner had the right to purposely interfere with an American federal agency. LeMatt had read the reports on the whole mess with Charlie Wong. Insanity. That's all it was, pure insanity. 

 He hadn't gotten any better, either. LeMatt had made a point of reading all the case files that Vecchio and the Mountie turned in, and some of them curdled his blood. Hostage situations. Suicide/homicide attempts. A performance arsonist. Smuggling mob targets. They'd done them all, and all without calling the SWAT team once. He had wondered how much longer the Canadian's luck would hold, and now he had his answer. "The guy's just got a Superman complex," he shrugged, "thinks that little red coat of his makes him a superhero. I don't like to see him get hurt, but he was askin' for it, y'know?"

 "No, I don't know, LeMatt." The burly SWAT captain didn't even have to turn to know who had just entered the lunchroom. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

 "If it isn't Chicago's foremost second banana." He fished in his pockets for two quarters, which he dropped into the vending machine. Punching the button for a Coke, he looked casually over his shoulder at the lanky Italian. "How's the robbery case coming, Vecchio?" 

 The green eyes smoldered as Vecchio stepped up next to him and selected black coffee from the other machine. "None of your business." The dark brew steamed into the paper cup, and he crouched to remove the full cup from the opening, his trenchcoat fanning out like a cape behind him. Standing, he looked evenly up into the big captain's eyes. "Fraser aint none of your business either, Joe." 

 LeMatt's eyes narrowed at the nickname. The Detective didn't seem to realize that the man he had so offhandedly labeled 'G.I. Joe' knew dozens of ways to separate that balding head from that long, skinny neck with his bare hands. "Fraser's everyone's business, Vecchio. He's brought the heat down on all of us." 

 "Funny," Elaine Besbriss looked up from her crossword puzzle. "Seems cool enough to me." 

 "Positively frigid out there." This from Gardino. 

 The SWAT captain rolled his eyes in frustration. "Thank you kindly, peanut gallery. Hell, if we found out he was collecting human heads, you ass-kissers would say it was some fucking Inuit gig!" 

 "Hey!" Vecchio was suddenly pressed up against him, his steaming coffee held just over the other man's groin. The Detective's expression was that of a man itching to play a good game of chicken. "Watch your mouth, asshole, there's ladies around." 

 "Ohhh," LeMatt laughed and took a step back. "Watch out everyone, Vecchio's pissed." He assumed a look of mock-contrition. "I'm sorry, did I insult your little Canuk friend? Forgive me, please. Such terrible manners." His voice lowered to a hiss. "I just get a little impolite when people nose in on my job and get kids killed." 

 "Like you weren't gonna go in and blow the son of a bitch's brains out!" 

 He drew himself up to his full, imposing height, looming over the Detective. "But we wouldn't have lost a cop in the process!" 

 "As if you give a shit about what happened to Benny." 

 ""Benny?'" Putting his hands over his heart, LeMatt fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh, I forgot, he's 'Benny' to you. Your little playmate. You're sittin' in the same fucking sandbox, playing with lives the same fucking way." 

 Vecchio threw the coffee aside, ignoring Elaine's squeal as it nearly landed in the Civilian Aide's lap. He grabbed a hold of LeMatt's collar, drawing back his other fist. "Shut your mouth, Joe, or I'll shut it for you!" 

 "Touch a nerve, Vecchio?" He whispered, then loudly announced. "Looks like Frannie isn't the only Vecchio that Big Red's got wrapped around his finger." His voice dropped lower, so that only the Detective could hear him. "Or does he have you a little lower down? Huh, Vecchio? You and the pretty Mountie boy?" 

 The smoldering embers in the green depths caught fire. LeMatt had known exactly what he was doing. If insulting the Italian's manhood, sister and partner hadn't worked, Vecchio would have to be dead. Now he was going to get a chance to - if not undo the embarrassment he had suffered at the Mountie's hands \- pound his partner into the ground. 

 *** 

There was a science to the construction of a particularly good sandwich. One did not place the lettuce directly on the bread, as that would cause drops of condensation from the cold, fresh lettuce - and the lettuce truly had to be cold and fresh - to make it soggy. Likewise, one never spread mustard or mayonnaise directly on the cold cuts, as the moisture in the meat would make the condiments ooze and clump out of control. Cheese was layered on either side of the meat, tomatoes precisely in the middle. When complete, the sandwich was cut in half. Not diagonally. 

 Lieutenant Harding Welsh contemplated the selection before him. The honey-baked ham should definitely go below the baby swiss, but above the provolone and roast turkey. He decided to layer the strongly flavored Genoa salami in the middle with the mild cheddar, and put the sprouts in the middle with the tomato. Dipping a knife into the pot of mayonnaise, he lifted one of the two thick halves of the Kaiser roll to begin. 

 He never got the chance. 

 A sudden explosion of noise from just outside his office diverted his attention from his own gastronomic pursuits, and he quickly abandoned his spread. Yanking the napkin from his collar, he charged out from behind the desk like a bull seeing Mountie-red. The venetian blinds on his door leapt and clattered as he threw the glass portal open, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the squad room. 

 The bull pen itself didn't seem to have experienced much disturbance, and the interrogation rooms were soundproof, so that meant the lunchroom. As if to confirm his deduction, the double doors hurtled open, and the remarkably nimble forms of Jack Huey and Louie Gardino scrambled out in what was clearly a mad rush towards self-preservation. The swinging doors allowed more of the auditory ambiance of the lunchroom to escape, and Welsh winced. He could hear tables and chairs being slammed into and overturned, numerous male voices encouraging someone to 'give it to' someone else, and Elaine's voice over all, a futile plea for civilized behavior. 

 His heavy brow furrowed deeply as he stalked towards the scene. The occupants of the bull pen \- cops and criminals alike - parted before him like the Red Sea before a particularly irate Moses. Large hands slammed into the doors of the lunchroom, throwing them open and exposing exactly what was happening within. "What in hell is going on in here?!" He roared the words at the top of his considerable lungs, and the action in the room came to an abrupt halt. 

 The lunchroom appeared to have been the victim of a freak indoor tornado. Several lunches, cups of coffee, and sodas had been relocated from the tops of the upended tables to adorn the walls, floor, and several members of the Chicago PD. The leg of a chair was impaled through the glass front of the vending machine that dispensed pre-made sandwiches and fruit. A hole had been knocked in the plaster of one wall at approximately the level of a man's head. Most of the former diners were clustered in relative safety around the edges of the room, leaving the two culprits clear. 

 In the middle of the carnage, Detective First Class Raymond Vecchio and SWAT Captain Peter LeMatt stood as the clear bearers of guilt. This culpability was further enhanced by the somewhat unprofessional position they had frozen in upon Welsh's entrance. 

 Vecchio's right eye was swollen nearly shut, his large nose pouring blood down the front of his shirt. He appeared to have taken the worst of the brawl, as the white plaster dust on the back of his head indicated, as did the fact that he was currently held in a headlock by the larger man. However, he didn't seem to be a complete victim, as LeMatt's split lip evidenced. The small-caliber handgun pressed to the SWAT captain's groin also suggested that even without Welsh's intervention, either the fortunes of the disagreement would have soon changed, or LeMatt's sex life would have taken a sudden and dramatic turn downward. 

 The fierce combativeness blazing in the two men's eyes soon abated as they looked at the Lieutenant that stalked up to them like an approaching storm system. "Gentlemen." His voice was like the rumble before a tsunami. "My office. _Now_." 

 Fighting to keep his disgust and anger in check, Welsh turned and left the ruined lunchroom returning to his office. He could hear Vecchio and LeMatt following him, but he did not turn, letting them see nothing more than his broad back as they made their way back to the office. As they passed through the bull pen, he could see the looks of sympathy given to the two condemned men. He knew his face must hint at the disembowelment yet to come. 

 He held himself back as they stepped inside, Vecchio solemnly closing the door behind them. The man apparently didn't want his death broadcast so easily. Once they were all ensconced behind the glass walls, Welsh sat behind his desk, pushing aside the luncheon fixings so that he could have a place to rest his elbows as he stared up at the two men. They squirmed in front of him like schoolboys, and for a long moment, he let them stew in their own fear. 

 Finally, he spoke, keeping his voice deceptively cool. "I assume you have a reason for your behavior, gentlemen - and I use the term very loosely. A reason beyond, that is, your misguided desire to bring World Champion Wrestling to the precinct lunchroom." 

 LeMatt and Vecchio looked at each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. After a few seconds of silence, the Detective decided to be the first to place his neck on the chopping block. "He started it, sir." 

 "How original, Vecchio."

 "He did, sir!" 

 The other man made no protest, so Welsh assumed that the Italian was telling the truth. "Go on."

 "He was..." Vecchio paused, clearly trying to find a professional way to say what he was thinking. "Making insinuations." 

 Welsh raised one eyebrow. " _Insinuations?"_

 "Yes, sir."

 "What kind of insinuations, Vecchio."

 "Well..." The Detective squirmed uncomfortably. 

 LeMatt rolled his eyes. "His sister, sir."

 "His sister?"

 "Yes, sir. It's common knowledge she's got a thing for the Mountie. I made a comment about that, and Vecchio flipped out. The guy's got a temper that's completely out of control. I've been telling you that from the beginning." LeMatt's tone was calm and placating, clearly placing him as the misunderstood party in the Lieutenant's eyes. 

 Or at least, that was his intention. Welsh didn't buy it for a second, especially considering that Vecchio looked ready to rip out the SWAT captain's throat with his teeth. Well, he didn't buy that LeMatt had just 'made a comment' about Frannie. He did buy that the Italian had one hell of a temper. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "I know you've got a beef at Vecchio. Everybody knows you two have got a beef. That doesn't mean you can go busting each other's heads in the lunchroom." 

 "Yes sir." The two guilty parties answered almost in perfect unison. 

 "Vecchio's a hothead. You know that, I know that, Vecchio knows that. You've gotta be some kind of serious idiot to go after his sister. Or the Mountie."

 "I never--!"

 "Cut the crap, LeMatt. Short fuse or not, Vecchio's not dumb enough to risk his shield if you hadn't been pushing his buttons. You were pushing his buttons, weren't you?" It wasn't really a question.

 "I wouldn't phrase it "

 "I'll take that as a yes." Welsh lifted a pickle from the paper plate, studying the way the light in his office reflected off the juicy spear. "This is not a playground or a school yard, gentlemen. You are not little Pete and Ray, scrapping over what was said about your kid sister. You're officers of the law. Now, the moment I see a jungle gym in the bull pen or a slide in the lunchroom, you may act as juvenile as you want. Until then, I expect adult behavior." He turned to look at the Detective. "How are you feeling, Vecchio?"

 His response was a look of shock and a touch of the bloody nose, as if he couldn't believe Welsh's concern. "Uh...fine, sir. Just a couple bumps and bruises." 

 "You're sick."

"Huh?"

 "Cough, cough, Vecchio. Sick. Nasty case of two-weeks-unpaid-leave-your-shield-on-my-desk-itis. Very contagious. In fact, your behavior these past two weeks has been making me sick, understood?" 

 A moment's look of dismay came over Vecchio's face, then he seemed to realize he was getting off very lightly. "Yes, sir." He reached into his pocket and pulled the gold badge from it's leather wallet, dropping it onto the desk."

 Welsh picked up the shield and nodded to him. "Dismissed."

 Both men turned to leave, but Welsh called out to stop them. "Not you, LeMatt. You're a _lot_ sicker." 

 The big SWAT captain stopped, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as Vecchio slipped past him into the free world. Welsh could swear he could hear the Detective whisper something much less than complementary, but he decided to let it slide. He had a few less than complimentary things to say himself. 

 ***

"Hey Frannie, do you need any help with " Maria pushed open the kitchen door with a boisterous shout, but what she saw made her stop immediately. The door swung shut, knocking into her from behind and pushing her into the kitchen. 

Smiling, she tip-toed over to the small table. Frannie was sitting there, slumped over into the middle of a pile of half-chopped vegetables, the paring knife hanging loosely from one hand as her head lay pillowed on one arm. Her hair was in the onions, her cheek on a tomato, but the younger woman didn't notice. Gently, Maria took the knife from her slumbering sister. "What did I tell you," she chided quietly, "You've worn yourself ragged, Frannie, and look where it's gotten you...face down in the pasta primavera. It's not even six, and you're out colder than an Eskimo's ass. Well, we can't have that."

Stopping only to put the knife in the dishwasher, she stepped back into the living room and tapped her husband on the shoulder. "I need your help with Frannie." 

Tony looked up at her in confusion. "Huh?"

"Come see." Maria gestured him into the kitchen, then pointed at Frannie's limp form. "We've got to get her upstairs and into bed...she can't stay like that all night." 

"Why not," He shrugged in an exaggerated fashion, "She's always mashing up fruits and vegetables for her skin anyway." Maria almost took the bait, then recognized the teasing glint in his eye and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. He laughed. "Okay, okay...bed it is." 

For such a decidedly ungraceful man, he was surprisingly gentle as he extricated Frannie from the food and lifted her into his arms. She stirred for a moment, as if waking, then smiled and cuddled against him like a small child. "Mmmm," she murmured, "Benton..." 

Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh great, now she thinks I'm the Mountie." 

"Don't worry," Maria assured him, "If she was awake, she'd know the difference in a heartbeat. Now up the stairs." 

By the time they reached the foot of the staircase, the strain was clear on Tony's face, and he stopped. "How about she sleeps on the couch?"

"How about not."

"But she's heavy!" 

Teasingly, Maria squeezed a handful of her husband's waist. "Getting a little out of shape, are we?" She offered a flirtatious smile, "If you can't get up those stairs, Frannie can't get put to bed. And if you don't put Frannie to bed, I can't put _you_ to bed." 

He pondered this a moment, then took a deep breath and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he moaned dramatically, "She must weigh 300 pounds!"

"121...she was carping about it this morning." There was a pause, then Maria allowed a wicked smile at her little sister's expense. "The other 179 is hairspray and cosmetics." 

"I believe it!" 

Finally, they reached the top of the stairs, and Maria opened the door into Frannie's room. Tony followed, setting his burden on top of the feminine comforter with a loud sigh of relief. He winced as he straightened. "This has totally shot my back, you know." 

Maria was busy arranging a blanket over Frannie and removing her shoes, and he soon realized that he lacked an audience. He watched as his wife tucked her sister in, then turned to him with a beautiful smile. "Thank you." 

He blushed, looking down at his shoes. "Hey, no problem." Under the coverlet, Frannie turned to lay on her side, drawing her knees up into a fetal position. She sighed, and Tony winced, "Now can we get out of here before she starts calling me the Mountie again?" 

***

Inspector Margaret Thatcher stood warily in the doorway of the hospital room, staring at the figure in the bed as though she expected the recumbent Mountie to suddenly leap to his feet and attack her. It wasn't a new feeling. The Constable was so unusually reserved and polite that from the moment she had met him she had suspected that somewhere inside was a chainsaw murderer begging to be set free. 

The difference now wasn't so much the physical changes as it was the changes that had occurred within her own mind. For the last two weeks, she had been immersed in Fraser's life. She knew nearly everything about him that was possible to glean through research. From the name of his sixth grade teacher to his first arrest (a litterbug...Fraser had been ten, making a citizen's arrest), to the measurements of his uniform and the store where he purchased Diefenbaker's flea prevention medicine, she had managed to track down and report more details about him than she knew about anyone else in the world. Hell, some of the things she had sent to Ottawa about the Constable were things she didn't know about her own mother!

At the same time, she knew practically nothing about who he really was. 

What about him could inspire a man like Vecchio to be so fiercely protective? The American was annoying and abrasive, with a deep, pervasive cynicism, yet he was loyal to Fraser even above his own interests. She knew that women would often follow the Constable because he was, she admitted, remarkably attractive, but something told her that was _not_ Detective Vecchio's motivation. But what was? What was this strange magnetism that made people loyal within moments of meeting him? 

Perhaps it was his chivalry. It certainly set him apart, and was, Thatcher knew, what had made her so suspicious of him. This was a man who would run out into the rain to open the door of her taxi, who had coffee waiting for her on her desk every morning, who insisted on holding her coat for her while she put it on. Not since Ricky Castilaggio in the third grade had she seen that kind of Arthurian behavior - and even that had only lasted until he got a kiss on the cheek from her and ten dollars from his cousin. Thatcher shook her head, smiling at the irony of it all. All of her life she had wanted to meet a man who was a true gentleman, but now that she had met one, she realized how out of place they were in the modern world. 

Feminism had carved its path - and for that she was grateful - but very few men had kept their manners in it's wake. Those who did almost always had an ulterior motive, and that was what she had feared. That if she had begun to respond, begun to thank him, begun to like him, even just as a friend, she might turn around one day and find that he expected sex as part of the deal. 

So she had tried to remedy the problem. Direct applications for transfer. Heavy suggestions towards the same. Menial tasks and harsh dressing-downs to make his life so miserable that he would want to flee Chicago at his first opportunity. It hadn't worked. Fraser had remained. 

Remained, and gotten her into a hell of a mess. Thatcher groaned aloud at the mere memory of all the paperwork, all the telephone calls, all the press. It wasn't what she joined the RCMP for, and she thought belligerently that if Benton Fraser had just been a little less dedicated, things would be a whole lot simpler in her life. The man just wasn't able to walk past an injustice - real or perceived! 

She sighed, leaning tiredly against the doorframe. Her imagination drifted, and a slight smile appeared on her lips as her mind conjured up a dark, musty castle, its stone walls dimly lit by clusters of flaming torches, a massive oaken table dominating the room. Camelot and the Round Table. In her version, however, Arthur was trying to decide what to do with Ye Olde Press because Sir Galahad had slain an American dragon. 

The mental image of the Constable standing in front of her desk dressed in full armor made her inadvertently giggle. He would probably apologize to the dragon before he slayed it, and to her afterwards for breaking some obscure protocol about the slaying of dragons. Probably something like damaging more than 3.5 scales in the slaying process. In that case, of course, he would certainly apologize to the scales too. She'd never seen a man apologize as much as Benton Fraser. If you implied the need, he would apologize for the sky being blue. 

Her little fantasy seemed to bring down the invisible wall that had been holding her out of the hospital room, and she took a tentative step inside. The Constable didn't leap to his feet and go for her throat. In fact, there was no motion from him whatsoever. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, chastising herself for having gotten so tense. 

Clutching her purse in front of her like a shield, she took a second step into the room. Her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings. Thatcher had managed to avoid visiting for almost ten days, putting it down to a busy schedule. In truth, she simply despised hospitals. She especially disliked the ICU wards, where the line between life and death became so thin that it was little more than a mist that pervaded every centimeter with a sense of mortality. 

The room had literally blossomed in her absence. Running a finger lightly over the soft petal of a rose, she marveled at the sheer tonnage of plant life that had been crammed into the tiny space. Bouquets fought for space with potted plants, which in turn were elbowed by stuffed bears and bunches of balloons that bobbed over everything. Her sharp eye picked out a few unusual items amongst the florist's bounty. A small, hand-painted pot of geraniums. A bouquet of wildflowers tied with what looked to be a child's hair ribbon. A small stuffed wolf - white, of course - had been given a place of honor by the Constable's pillow. 

She felt suddenly awkward for having brought no gift, then shook her head sharply, reminding herself that he wasn't even awake to appreciate it. She didn't want to know when he would be, either. Thatcher had carefully avoided the doctors on the way in, dreading the possibility of one catching her and offering a prognosis. As it was, she was able to tell everyone honestly that she had no idea when he would awaken. Were that contaminated with a medical opinion, the entire world would consider it a carved in stone deadline, and there would be hell to pay if he missed it.

Her eyes flitted around the room, carefully avoiding direct contact with the man in the bed. "I don't know why I came here," she admitted aloud. "It's not as if it were to talk to you, because you're in a coma. Talking to you would, of course, actually be talking to myself, and I have no need to talk to myself. Anything I want to say to myself, I can of course say quite clearly without talking. My mother said that talking to yourself out loud was a sign of one of two things. Loneliness or insanity. I am certainly not the former, and as I am equally certainly not the latter, you shouldn't expect much in the way of conversation, Constable." 

It suddenly dawned on her that she was, as she had just defined it, actually talking to herself as she explained that she wouldn't be talking to herself. Thatcher groaned, dropping into the nearest chair. She cradled her head tenderly in her hands, her delicate fingers working in slow circles at the temples. Maybe she was losing her mind. 

If she was, could she really tell the difference? Maybe she was already insane, sitting straightjacketed in some asylum somewhere, ranting wildly about Mounties in armor, deaf wolves, and the very unladylike acts she would like to persuade the American media to perform upon themselves. It was actually a slightly more appealing option than the possibility that this was all real. 

Unfortunately, as far as she was able to discern, she was quite sane and all this was quite real. If nothing else, her headache was certainly real. 

Why couldn't life be simple? Why couldn't she have gone into an easier and less stressful occupation...say, brain surgery or nuclear bomb inspection? Why couldn't she figure out the answer to the simple, eight-word conundrum that reporters presented to her again and again. She always responded with 'No Comment', but that didn't answer anything.

What are your personal feelings about Constable Fraser? 

Sometimes, they were homicide. She had gone through moments, usually immediately after dealing with Vecchio, when she had wanted to come down to the hospital and squeeze strychnine into his IV. Sometimes, she felt sympathy as a fellow Mountie. When she read yet another scathing column in the paper, she would feel anger. When she looked into his file and read the lists of commendations, they were feelings of awe. When she looked at him now...

What was it she felt? 

He looked incredibly fragile lying there, and she was reminded of when, as a girl, she had seen a majestic monarch butterfly lying on the sidewalk with broken wings. His appearance was nothing at all like the RCMP poster boy who stood in front of her desk at ramrod attention with no apparent effort. There was dark shadow on his cheeks where the tender pink skin of newly healed abrasions had prevented the nurses from shaving him as closely as he always did. Cheekbones had once been lightly suggested against fair, rosy skin. Now, they were far more strongly outlined on a face that had become as white as the sheets he lay on. There was no hint of the blush that had once so easily set his entire face crimson. 

Something stirred beneath the exhaustion, a warm, almost maternal feeling. Thatcher struggled to find a name for it, and was startled when her vocabulary settled on affection. That couldn't possibly be it. With all that she had learned about him, she didn't really know any more about him than she had in the beginning, except for the loyalty he inspired in others. Yet the affection was there, and now it seemed to be reveling in its label, skipping happily forward in her mind like a child with a new party dress. 

A light snort of disgust escaped her, and she mentally chided herself for being so ridiculous. _Good Lord, Meg, what's wrong with you? No. I can tell you what's wrong with you. You haven't had a decent relationship in ten years. Your career is tethered to a sinking ship. You haven't gotten a good night's sleep in two weeks. You've drunk enough coffee to single-handedly support Folgers. You're reaching out for something steady, and you're letting that damn Yank mess with your mind and make you think that Constable Fraser is that something. Time for some decaf._

Still, she rationalized that maybe she had been keeping him at too far an arm's length. She had once wanted that arm to reach all the way back to Canada, and that was more than a bit extreme, wasn't it? There was absolutely nothing wrong with caring _about_ a fellow officer. It was caring _for_ them that had to be avoided, and that was something she was determined to prevent at all costs. 

Her eyes wandered over his motionless body and stopped in curiosity at the hand that lay heavily on top of the thin blanket. She remembered her thoughts when she had first seen his dossier photo, the face so youthful that she wondered if this supposedly 35 year-old Constable was actually old enough to shave yet. His hands were a different story. Looking not only every bit of 35, but well beyond, she was shocked to realize how work worn they were. 

Gently, she lifted his hand from the bed, turning it over lightly in her own soft, lightly rose-scented and lotioned hands. Some tiny voice informed her that it was the first time she had actually touched the Constable, and she nearly dropped it immediately. However, she soon realized that she wasn't exactly shattering protocol and taking steps towards the abyss, and decided there was no harm in touching him after all. After all, he wasn't awake to touch back. 

Her manicured fingers traced the thin line of a scar across the back of his hand. It looked to her as though he had been slashed by a knife, and her eyebrows raised as she realized that the scar was barely healed. As her fingers followed the scar's path, she wondered at it's placement. Most knife wounds to the hands were defensive, but they were usually on the palm of the hand and placed there by the victim's attempt to grab the blade. Her police training suggested a particularly vicious reason for this placement. He must have been clutching something - perhaps to prevent a fall or to defend himself - and the attacker had slashed his hand to make him release that something. She shivered. It would seem violence liked to follow Constable Fraser around Chicago. 

The scar was not alone, but joined by many others. Most seemed to simply be assorted small cuts, but there were several tiny round ones that she was hard-pressed to identify. Burns, perhaps? A shower of sparks? 

Something in his spirit called to her from those small white marks, and she marveled at his resilience. His file had shown her again and again how he was able to pull himself up out of impossible situations, persevering and finding justice. Scars had been left on his body many times from these ordeals, and she wondered how it was that his optimism didn't seem to have been similarly gouged. Or if it had, how he hid it so well. 

She wondered if he could hide the scars this time. Certainly, the one from the ICP bolt would be well hidden by his dark hair, but what about the marks this would surely leave on his spirit? Having his reputation systematically attacked like this...that had to hurt far worse than any wound. 

Thatcher felt a strong protective feeling well up, a desire to do anything she could to stop this from being the fatal blow to that timeless kindness that everyone spoke of. But what could she do? Her efforts through the RCMP seemed to be an exercise in futility, and she couldn't stomach any further work with Vecchio. Was there nothing she could do?

Strangely, her thoughts wandered back to her childhood, to a practice she had abandoned years ago for the more practical things of the world. It was something Mrs. Vecchio had seemed to believe in quite strongly, and had insisted helped. If nothing else, it certainly seemed to give a sense of assurance to the one who did it, as if they had covered all their bases, done everything that could be done to help. She needed that feeling.

Still, she wasn't about to do it if she couldn't do it right. Margaret Thatcher wasn't about to have the first words spoken to God in over twenty years be some stuttering, bumbling improvisation. She couldn't recall fully any of the Sunday-school recitations she had been taught, and she almost gave up on the idea entirely before she remembered something. It was something she had only heard once in her own language, but the melody and words had haunted her. 

Quickly looking around to make sure no one was watching, she leaned down over the Constable's body. Her hair brushed the line of his jaw, and she slid the recalcitrant strand behind her ear. Pitching her voice as low as possible, she took a deep breath and began, knowing that quite possibly, this was the final step on the path to madness. 

__

"Angel of God, my guardian dear,  
To whom God's love commits me here.  
Ever this day, remain at my side,  
To watch and to love, to heal and to..."

She suddenly gasped and jerked back, her hand flying to her cheek in shock. There had been a...sensation. Like someone touching an ice cube to her face, only dry. It had lasted half a heartbeat, so swift she wasn't sure she had felt it, but it was more than enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It had almost been like being kissed by a ghost. 

"Inspector?!" Her attention was abruptly diverted by an annoyingly familiar voice at the door. 

Trying not to look like a teenager caught on the couch with her blouse off, Thatcher looked up, her face flaming red under the fluorescent lights. "Detective Vecchio." She almost asked what he was doing there, then suddenly she saw. One eye looked to have been replaced by a large plum, the flesh so puffy and discolored that only the barest of white and green slits was discernible as the eye itself. His nose had been packed and bandaged in white gauze, yet he bore the satisfied smile of a winner. Of course, that might just have been from finding her. "What happened to you?" 

He shrugged in exaggerated, machismo-fueled nonchalance. "Disagreement with a guy at the station. Welsh made me come here and get things checked out." Gingerly, he touched his bandaged nose. "Come to find out the son of a bitch broke it."

"I hope you feel better." She had to force the words, and they came coldly. It was polite, after all, to wish an injured person well. It would not be polite to say - hypothetically speaking \- ' _at last, someone had the guts to punch you right in that obnoxious face._ ' No, that would not be polite at all. 

"I'll be fine. Came to check on Benny." A wicked grin appeared, and he leaned against the doorframe lazily. "Looks like somebody else was thinking about him, though." 

Her eyes blazed, and she was satisfied to see him wince at the venom in her stare as she picked up her purse. "I was checking in on the health of my officer, Detective. Good night." 

She swept past him into the hall, and for a moment, almost thought she might escape that easily. Then he called after her. "Inspector!"

Reluctantly, she stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"I still won't tell." 

Her voice was cold enough to spontaneously freeze all liquid in Cook County General. "Tell what, Detective?" 

He grinned, the mischievous twinkle in his one fully visible eye indicating that he knew she was too tired to physically assault him, no matter how tempted she might be to give him a matching set of eyes. "That there's a bigger heart in there."

***

THE NEXT EVENING

DAY 13

***

"There really should be an Olympic medal for this." Frannie grumbled in frustration as the glacial movement of the elevator towards the ICU ward caused her to re-adjust her load yet again. She had come to the conclusion that Marathon Mountie Monitoring was a definite sport. 

It required great stamina to spend her nights practicing it while maintaining a semblance of normal life in the daytime. Great strength was needed to transport the purse required by a Vecchio female spending more than ten minutes in a single location. Her dedication and patience were tested nightly, and she knew that she had shed more than enough mascara to make up for a possible lack of sweat. Besides, was it her fault that those Olympic girls always looked so sweaty? Couldn't they buy a decent antiperspirant? 

A corporate sponsor would especially come in handy. She'd be happy to wear a tasteful little logo somewhere in exchange for a few rolls of quarters and a commercial now and then. Or even just the quarters. The price of coffee from the hospital vending machines was just this side of armed robbery. 

Finally, the elevator ground to a halt at the proper floor, the doors reluctantly parting. Frannie slipped through, not bothering to wait until they had opened completely. She was a veteran at this by now, and she knew that if she hurried, she could get in just as the nurse was leaving and find out the latest news on Benton's condition. The nurses on their way out from the day shift tended to be quite easy to talk to, in a pleasant mood due to the day's end. Night shift nurses, on the other hand, generally came in two varieties. The _I-Am-Here-To-Do-My-Job-Not-Bond-With-People-Why-Do-You-Think-I-Took-The-Night-Shift-In-The-First-Place-You-Moron_ nurses, and the _I-Am-Usually-A-Good-Nurse-But-I-Pissed-Someone-Off-And-Got-Stuck-On-The-Night-Shift-So-I'm-Going-To-Toe-The-Protocol-Line-And-Not-Tell-You-Anything_ nurses. Neither were much help to her. 

Picking up her pace as much as common sense would allow in spike heels with a ten pound purse over one shoulder, Frannie hurried down the hall and around the corner to Benny's room. She was just in time, and she waved cheerily to the nurse just now pulling a cart out of the Mountie's room. The nurse was a young Asian, barely out of nursing school, but she and the bubbly young Italian woman had found themselves kindred spirits from the moment Yi Sun had commented that it was lucky the Mountie wasn't wearing a wedding ring. "Sunny!" 

The nurse stopped, a wide grin breaking out on her pretty face as she turned and saw who was coming. "Frannie! I didn't think you'd make it!" Abandoning her cart, she wrapped her friend in a quick, warm hug, then slapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Damn, girl, what kept you? I just gave him a sponge bath. I figured your sensors could pick up a handsome guy sans clothing from at least a hundred miles!" 

Laughing, Frannie shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me?! You know I'm tired, Sunny, my ESP isn't what it used to be. Besides, I got this for you." Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a novel. Lines had been etched into its paper spine, proving it had been read before, but it didn't matter. The cover illustration of a technically clothed (there was, at least, a strategically located comet) white-skinned male and an equally technical (ah, the marvels of long hair) green-skinned female making out among the milky way proved that this was not overly deep reading matter to begin with. Neon letters over the celestial lovers spelled out " _Passion's Probe_." 

Yi Sun squealed happily as she snatched the novel. "Oooh...Char Treusedeaux! Didn't she write ' _Nocturn's Nova_ ' also?" She raised one plucked eyebrow as she looked at Frannie. "Funny. I woulda had you pegged more for the historical than the sci-fi bedwarmers. Weren't you saying you were looking for a copy of " _Sword of Desire_ " the other day?" 

"Yeah." Frannie shrugged, then a wicked gleam lit her dark eyes. "But I had to buy this one. Check out the hero." 

Curious, the nurse flipped open the book and leaned back against the wall. " _Lieutenant Land, the lustiest laserman on the Anthurium, was a fading fantasy; bodacious business-boy-wonder Black was but a sudden spike in the graph of her past; and Danny Holis, the holoartist, was but a ghost of a memory. She sighed as her nether core began to ache anew as her memories of the recent past ranged from romance through rapture to pure, unrefined raunchiness. Rolling over, she threw a long, supple leg over Betonn's_..." She let out a most unladylike snort, clamping one hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. 

"See what I mean, Sunny?!" The two pairs of dark eyes met, and both women promptly lost what control had remained. Staggering almost drunkenly, they barely made it into the room and shut the door before gales of laughter burst from them both. Thankfully, Frannie had learned to use waterproof mascara before coming to the hospital, because tears were streaming from her eyes by the time she managed to breathe again. 

The nurse was still doubled over, clutching her stomach and gasping for air between giggles. "Oh, God," she finally managed, "Frannie, you are one wicked, _wicked_ bitch! He'd _die_ if he knew!" Seeing the mischief in the other woman's eyes, her own widened in shock. "No!" 

Opening her purse, the Italian revealed at least three similarly lurid volumes. "I've been reading to him for the past two weeks."

"You didn't! These?!"

"Hey, I had to do something to pass the time. I don't sew worth a damn, and the Docs said that I should try to talk to him and get a reaction. The way I see it, if reading a couple of chapters of Euphorbia having herself a grand old time with ol' Betonn doesn't get a reaction from his 'pylon of passion', he's still way under." She waved a hand in the direction of the bed with that remark, but when her gaze followed, the giggly, pajama-party feel vanished faster than an abandoned Mercedes. 

The air seemed to grow exponentially thicker by the nanosecond until she felt as though she were drowning on dry land. Fighting the impulse to clutch at her throat, reminding herself that it was all psychosomatic, she cleared her throat. "How...um..." Her voice caught, but her friend understood.

Smiling gently, Yi Sun patted Frannie's arm. "He's doing _much_ better, Frannie. He's been off the They took him off the drugs this morning and the respirator this afternoon." 

"What!?" Jerking away, Frannie stared in horror at the tiny Asian. "Dammit, Sunny, that nearly killed him last time!"

"That was over a week ago! Think, Frannie. It's been ten days since he coded. Thirteen since the accident. They had to pull the drugs anyway to avoid damage." Her hand brushed lightly over the olive-skinned cheek. "Hey, he really is doing better. Mortality risk at this point is virtually zero, and the ICP bolt shows almost normal levels." A secret smile touched her lips, and she leaned towards Frannie's ear. "Doctor McCormick told Doctor Benton that they're expecting him to wake up on his own some time tomorrow morning." 

The nurse grinned at the look of unrestrained delight on Frannie's face. She was frozen in place, and for the first time in anyone's memory, rendered speechless. Satisfied that her good news had been well received, Yi Sun went back to the door. "See you later, Frannie. I've got to finish my rounds." She made a face. "Mr. Santoro in the next room. Gangrenous diabetes on a fat, dirty old man." Casting a final look on the figure in the bed, she sighed deeply. "Guess I can't have too much fun, can I?" 

As soon as the door closed, it was as though a switch had been thrown. The formerly immobile Italian was snapped out of her shock by the click of the latch, and her mouth opened and closed a few times like a landed trout. She blinked quickly, then it all registered. Benton was going to live. He was not only out of danger, but they had taken him off those horrible drugs, and he was even going to wake up tomorrow!

A cry of pure happiness burst from the tips of her painted toenails and worked its way up her petite body, exploding from between crimson-tinted lips in a sound that most resembled an Indian war whoop. She literally jumped for joy, hopping up and down in tiny little movements, her hands clapping like a castanet player on speed. Some part of Frannie was glad that her brother wasn't there to see her reaction, but the larger part didn't care. If he had been there, it wouldn't have changed a damn thing, except how embarrassed she would be afterwards. 

Little noises of excitement bubbled out as though she was treading on mice as she skipped her way to Benny's bedside and grabbed his hand in both of hers. "Did you _hear_?!!! You're gonna be okay! You're gonna be okay! You're really, really gonna...gonna..." Her words choked off, and she dropped to her knees, pressing his hand against the side of her face. "Oh, God," her voice was a barely audible whisper, too choked with relief to be coherent. "You're really gonna be okay." 

She didn't know how long she knelt there, softly stroking his hand against her face, whispering those words over and over again like a mantra. It was as if the more she said it, the more it would be true. It was as if by repeating the good news enough times, all the bad news of the past two weeks would cease to exist. 

Finally, she managed to pull herself together, rocking back on her heels and releasing his hand. Sniffling, she wiped the tears that had leaked from her eyes on the sleeve of her electric blue top. Gently reaching out, she lay her fingertips lightly against his cheek, smiling warmly as she realized that this was probably the last night that she would be able to do that without worrying about him leaving the country in fear. "So," she said, forcing false bravery and lightness into her tone, "this is our last night, I guess."

She reached for her bag. "We...uh, we're almost to the end of ' _Destiny's Sweet Desire_.' I mean, there's a chance - a slim chance, I know...you've made that pretty clear - that we might, y'know, go on a date or something someday and spend other evenings together, but there's no way in hell you'd let me read you something like this again. So I s'pose we need to finish it while you're still too out to freak. And if we're gonna go out, we might as well go out with a Jenalise K. Icecat piece...take one of those back home with you, and you'd melt all that ice in a couple hours." She paused. "Which might not be a bad thing, really." 

Opening the novel to the last place she'd marked, she began reading. _"I awoke from the cloyingly seductive bosom of sleep to the insistent knocking on the door of my virginal sanctuary. With a soft gasp, I slipped out from under the bedclothes, and hurried to answer the summons that fate had seen fit to send at last. Rubbing from my sultry eyes the last vestiges of the dreams of desire, I flung the portal of my future wide open like the soul that needed the love that I had been forever denied."_

She stopped, a playful thought teasing at the back of her mind and rapidly pushing its way front and center. This was the last chance she would ever get to read sweet, passionate words of love to the man who could send her temperature off the scale with nothing more than his shadow. Why not do it right? Really right. 

Standing, Frannie brushed back her hair and cleared her throat. Her voice took on a new depth and intensity, emoting every syllable as if her life depended on it. _"And there he stood. Resplendent in the moonlight, Paul's celestial blue eyes shone with desire deeper than all the oceans of the world. I could see the rapid rise and fall of his magnificently muscled chest as he tried to catch his breath."_

 "I stood there admiring how the moonlight played over the flexing muscles of his chest. I opened my arms to him, no longer able to stand even the shortest distance between us." Every motion dripping sensuality, Frannie mirrored the actions of the fictional heroine, flinging her arms wide as if opening them to every lustful fantasy she had ever entertained. She continued to read and perform, getting more into it with each passing letter. _"I wanted him. No, I needed him, like I've never needed anything before in my life. He was a vision, no, a god bathed in the moonlight."_

"'Jennie, my sweet Goddess, Jennie!' my beloved exclaimed, his heart throbbing in time with the heaving of my cleavage. Ah, the double-edged sword of desire would sweep us both away unless I stopped him, now, before I was lost in our unyielding passion." Her eyes burned as she looked down at the Mountie's still form, but she did have enough sense to know where to return to the world of narration. No matter how much she wanted Benton Fraser, she was not so desperate as to have sex with the man while he was unconscious. 

  _"'No, Paul, wait!' I cried out, but it was in vain. In three short steps Paul crossed the threshold of my loveless prison and swept me into his arms."_ She shuddered as she imagined Benton's strong arms wrapped around her. Glancing at the next words on the page, she decided that acting them out wouldn't hurt. After all, it wasn't exactly ravishing the helpless to kiss him. She should at least get that much as a prize for her Marathon Mountie Monitoring. 

 Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and lightly licked her lips. _"'Kiss me, Jennie....kiss me as if we had never kissed this way or would ever again...' As I leaned closer to the wild abandonment of his perfectly shaped lips, his whisper of '...kiss me...' haunted my last waking memory....."_ Her lips touched his lightly. Suddenly, Frannie felt his mouth move ever-so-slightly beneath hers. Her eyes flew open.

 She was staring at a pair of blue gems that looked back at her with a more than slightly disoriented expression. It took her a moment to realize exactly what she was seeing.

 Those were Benton's eyes. 

 Those were Benton's _open_ eyes! 

 Frannie screamed. 

 

****

PART THREE

Eyes Wide Open

 ***

THE NEXT MORNING

DAY 14

******************************************

"Before we go in, I think I need to clarify what you should expect concerning the Constable's condition. I don't want you to expect to go in there and find him walking around and talking to you. If that happens, it won't be for a while." Doctor McCormick sat in one of the plastic chairs Ray had come to hate in the waiting room he had come to hate even more. His hands were folded on his lap, the stethoscope draped over his thin neck. Hope and caution were visible in equal measures in his eyes. 

Ray's eyes narrowed. "But he will be doing those things again, right? You know, walking and talking and all."

The doctor gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's hard to say, but right now...it's looking encouraging. He responds when we call his name, although we aren't sure yet if that is because he knows his name, or if it's just the sound. Either way, his hearing doesn't seem damaged. Reflexes are good, and he can wiggle his fingers and toes, though he's not particularly coordinated. We were concerned about his eyesight for a while, as he seemed to have difficulty focusing, but it seems that is just residual paralytics in his system. Things are probably still a little blurry for him, but he can track a penlight, so we know he's not blind."

At this news, Ray chuckled, and McCormick regarded him oddly. "Mr. Vecchio?"

"It's just..." The Detective ran his hand over his eyes, pinching and massaging over one eyebrow, trying to rub away the fatigue he felt. "There was this thing a couple months ago. He smacked his head, got this hematoma thing, and he was blind as a bat for a while there." 

McCormick smiled. "Well, Mr. Vecchio, you don't have to worry about that, at least. Now, as for verbal communication, he's made several attempts, but they are currently very slurred and indistinct. His motor skills and muscle control are still very poor. We won't know for a number of days how much of that is possible damage from the injury, and how much is from the medications and the residual effects of the coma and his prolonged inactivity. Right now, we're communicating mostly through a simple system of hand-squeezing. One for no, two for yes. A side benefit to that is that we know he can still count." 

Standing next to her brother, Frannie snorted. "To two, at least." 

"True," McCormick allowed, "but the concept of mathematical progression is still there, and that is very important." 

Ray nodded, but his mind had begun to drift, finding it more and more difficult to focus on this litany of ifs. It was only six in the morning, but it seemed like an eternity since Ray's cell phone had rung, just after seven-thirty the night before. Frannie had called him, her voice risen in bubbling eagerness as she laughed and sobbed the news that Benny was awake. After that call, time slowed to a snail's pace, the clock ticking by glacially towards six A.M., when the doctors told them they could come in. He hadn't been able to eat, sleep, or hardly even to breathe since then. 

Pacing through the living room all night, his mind churned alternately over optimism and fear. On one hand, Benny was awake. The constant, niggling fear that he would never wake up had passed. It had been replaced with another, fiercer fear. Somehow, it would almost be worse if he walked into that room, looked into those wide eyes...and was seen as a stranger. He didn't know if he could handle it. Could he handle total rejection after two weeks of putting everything on the line for a man he knew as his best friend? 

Looking at Doctor McCormick now, he struggled to look cool and detached as he listened to the warning. Inspector Thatcher was here, after all, and while he wasn't looking at her, he knew she was probably looking at him. He knew that she would be appearing cold and efficient as always, the tiny glimpse of vulnerability and humanity he had seen two nights ago vanished under that coat of ice. His green eyes flickered in her direction for the briefest of moments. Did she worry? What did she think about all this? Did she care about Benny at all, care even the least bit beyond the official headaches he had caused?

Feeling like a child in grade school, he raised his hand. "Doc, you said that we could do something?" He gestured at himself, Frannie, Ma, and Inspector Thatcher. "I mean, from what you're saying, this sounds like we're still playing the waiting game." 

"In most things, yes." 

Frannie seized upon the opening in that statement. "Most things? So, like, we can do something to make him get better?" 

The doctor held up a hand in caution. "Not make him better, no. Mr. Vecchio is right, that is entirely 'a waiting game' for now. But you can help us determine his condition for now. He's been resting for almost eight hours since his initial assessment upon awakening, and we're ready to assess things again, now that most of the paralytics have completely worn off and he has gotten a little rest. That's where you all come in."

For the first time that morning, Thatcher spoke. "How?"

"Well, we're going to try and determine several things with this session. Whether he still knows his name, the rough extent of the memory loss \- and I'm sorry to say that it's virtually guaranteed that there will be memory loss. Also, we'll try to see whether he still recognizes all of you. At first, we're going to be asking the questions in the form of multiple choice, then we're going to try and get some verbal responses. Mr. Vecchio, what does he usually call you?"

"Just Ray." 

This pleased the doctor, and he nodded. "Good, good. One syllable, very easy. We should be able to get verbal confirmation quite well. Very good." He turned to Thatcher. "Inspector, with all due respect to your position, we are going to ask that he try to remember your first name. That would not only place his memory within three weeks, but we do feel that 'Meg' would be easier to pronounce." He paused, checking his files a moment. "Your first name is Margaret, correct? Like the Prime Minister?"

Ray couldn't help a slight smile as he heard Thatcher sigh. He had a feeling the name thing was probably a sore spot for her. Something told him that unlike Benton, she wasn't unaware of the uniqueness of her moniker. "Like my Aunt, actually. It's a family tradition to name the first girl after her Aunt when possible." 

"I guess they just didn't expect this combination to come up." McCormick's eyes glittered, but Thatcher's voice was frigid as she answered. 

"No, I guess not." 

Thankfully, McCormick seemed to be intelligent enough to recognize when something was not amusing. He cleared his throat, then nodded towards the room. "Well, shall we?" With a quietude that would have shocked most of his co-workers at the 27th, Ray followed the doctor down the hall towards the Mountie's room. 

Ray wasn't sure how he would react to seeing his friend again. He wasn't sure, for that matter, how Benny would look. Would he still have that pallid, corpse-like stillness about him, or would the dead have returned to life? 

The answer, he soon found, was both. The cop felt his throat tighten as he looked tentatively into the room. He still looked so damned fragile, maybe even more so now. They had raised the bed so that he was sitting up a little, but he was clearly unable to support his own weight, leaning back heavily against the mattress. His hands lay still and heavy on the sheets, his face paper-white, his lips that horrid grayish tinge. The blue eyes were open, an almost out of place sign of life in the deathly face.

Green eyes searched blue, looking for some sign of recognition. There was none, indeed, Benny didn't even seem to completely see him, his eyes blank and oddly unfocused. A chill ran up Ray's spine. He remembered that look, the look he had seen for two terrifying days in the Canadian woods. Was the Doc so sure that he wasn't blind again?

He wasn't aware that he had stopped in the doorway until McCormick passed him, stepping into the room with a friendly smile. "Good morning, Constable." Benny's eyes moved towards the doctor, and his mouth twitched slightly, almost as if attempting a smile. Ray's heart sank. He could see. Benny could see and respond...to Doctor McCormick, but not to him.

Not noticing the stricken expression on the face of the cop, McCormick took Benny's hand in his, wrapping the fingers carefully around his own. "Do you remember what we did yesterday, Constable?"

All eyes fixed on the white fingers. For what seemed to be an eternity, but which Ray knew to be only four pounding heartbeats, there was nothing. Then the fingers flexed...and flexed again. Yes. Frannie gasped and clutched her brother's hand so hard that he could have sworn he felt bones crack, but Ray didn't care.

He felt his throat tighten. Thank God, there was still something there. How much, they still didn't know, but at least it was something. Benny wasn't gone.

Watching the Mountie more raptly than any stakeout or basketball game, he listened as the doctor delivered the instructions. He spoke as if to a small child, and Ray hoped that it was just taking precautions, just being sure that he understood everything. Hopefully, he didn't really need to be spoken to so slowly or simply. "We are going to ask you some questions. Remember when I told you you'd been hurt...well, we're trying to find out how badly, and we need your help. Just answer as many questions as you can, just like we did last night. Squeeze my hand one time if the answer is no, or two times if the answer is yes. If I ask you for a number, you squeeze that many times. All right?"

One. Two. _Yes_.

The doctor motioned for Ray to step closer. He did so awkwardly, suddenly not sure of what to do with his hands or his arms. Finally, he just stuffed his hands in his pockets, offering a limp, lop-sided smile that he knew to be terribly lame. "Hey, B--." Abruptly, he cut off, looking nervously at McCormick. Was he supposed to use Fraser's name yet or not? 

A slight shake of the head told him no, then the doctor re-focused his attention on the Mountie. "Do you remember your name?" 

One. Two. _Yes_.

He could hear Thatcher's sigh of relief from behind him and Frannie's slightly less restrained yelp of glee. As for himself, he knew that he probably looked like an idiot, a crazy grin twitching his mouth but too frightened to make a full appearance. Even McCormick was smiling. "Is your name Robert?"

One. _No_.

"Is your name Ray?"

One. _No_. And was that a smile? He couldn't be sure.

"Is your name Ben?"

One. Two. _Yes_.

__

Good going, Benny. One down, God knows how many to go. Ray's eyes were urging his friend on, trying to silently support him every moment. The doctor's gaze never left his patient, but he spoke to those watching. "We're going to try to talk now. Ben, I don't want you to be too hard on yourself. You're going to sound a little funny, but that's okay. Nobody will think anything bad for it." He paused a moment. "Does Ben stand for anything?"

The blue eyes closed, and for a heart-stopping moment, Ray thought he was gone again. Then he realized that Benny was only concentrating. He took a deep, shuddering breath, even that act clearly difficult, and his tongue briefly moistened the gray lips. Once, twice those lips parted, the forehead creased in concentration, but nothing happened. Bitter irony suddenly struck his partner...here was a man that never seemed to shut up, and he was struggling to say a single word. It was yet another way his world had turned on it's head.

At last, sound emerged. It was low and hoarse, so badly slurred that it was barely legible as a name. But it was there. It was there, and more importantly, it was the first thing that he had heard Benny say since they had taken him away from the accident scene. "B...buh...buuh...ennn...tuuuhn."

That moment cemented everything for Ray, cemented the certainty of his friend's survival, and nothing else mattered. It didn't matter if he knew him or not. He had lived, and he knew who he was. Everything was going to be all right. The grin burst free, spreading it's undignified joy over his features, and he didn't care if the Dragon Lady saw it. Hell, he didn't care if the whole world saw it.

Ray was so focused on that one word that he hardly noticed as McCormick took his arm and pulled him within a few inches of the bedside. "Ben, do you know who this is?"

He didn't dare breathe, every molecule of his being focused on those pale, weathered fingers. One. _Oh please, Jesus, not one. Not one!_ Two. _Yes_.

Strangely, his world seemed to collapse in on itself, all emotion swept away in a complete numbness. Not caring if the doctor approved or not, he knelt down beside the bed, pushing McCormick's hand out of the way to take Benny's in his own. It was cold, limp, but it was alive. "Benny, do you remember my name?" The words were a bare whisper, but the Mountie heard them.

One. Two. _Yes_.

Smiling softly, he asked, "Is my name Steve?"

One. Two. _Oh no_ , Ray's head sagged forward in defeat. _Not this. Not again._ Three. His head snapped up again, and he regarded his friend with a look of puzzled annoyance. " _Three_? What the hell is three?"

This time, the expression on Benny's face was unmistakable. He was smiling. It was a faint, exhausted smile, barely enough to move his lips at all, but it was a smile nonetheless. His lips parted again, and this time the word came a little easier, though just as faint and just as slurred as before. "Tuuhh...wwwice."

The laugh that burst from the Detective startled almost everyone in the room, with the exception of the Canadian, who simply closed his eyes again, allowing his head to sink deeply into the pillow with what could only be termed a self-satisfied cast to his face. Still chuckling, and aware that he was being regarded with expressions that cast serious doubt upon his sanity, Ray turned to explain to the others. "About two and a half months ago, we were in this plane crash up north. Benny got that hematoma thing I'd told you all about, and he was callin' me Steve for a while there. Twice, to be exact."

Ever-so-gently, he punched his friend in the shoulder. "So, we know your sick sense of humor's still in there. How about my real name?"

The eyes didn't open, but the smile remained. "Rrrrr...aaay."

"Yeah." For the first time since his world had gone to hell on that school basketball court, Ray felt tears prick his eyes. He swiped them away harshly. "Yeah, that's my name."

Doctor McCormick asked other questions. He asked how old Benny was, if he knew who the Dragon Lady was, and a couple of other questions. Ray didn't really remember much about those, except that he did know that the Mountie managed to pass them all. He just stood in the corner for the rest of the questions. Sometimes Frannie held his hand, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes the Dragon Lady was watching, sometimes she wasn't. He didn't care. It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Benny knew him. He hadn't lost his brother after all! The terrible hurdle that had been looming before him the past two weeks had been crossed, and all that remained was to salvage Benny's reputation.

Ray grinned. That would be child's play.


	2. Senseless (Full Version)

 ***

TWO HOURS LATER

***

"What do you mean, you need to see my badge?!" Ray pulled back, his chin rising slightly in righteous indignation as he looked down at the woman guarding the perimeter of the school.

 The other cop merely regarded him indulgently, her arms crossed over her blue uniform shirt as her brown eyes glittered in amusement. She was almost as tall as Ray, standing five foot eleven. Her form was just as thin and lithe...or it had been, that is. Like most cops, time, stress, and donuts had taken about fifteen pounds of toll. Yet she was still beautiful enough to turn the heads of passers by. Once, she had turned Vecchio's head, but her number was now in the 'friends' section of his black book.

 The only emotion she was riling in him now was annoyance. Taking a deep breath and rolling her eyes in exaggerated impatience, she repeated herself, speaking slowly and clarifying as if to a small child. "I...that is, me, Eileen McLean, the officer guarding the perimeter of this scene...need...that is, require...to see...that is, to actually visualize, to set my eyes upon...your badge...that is, the little piece of metal you carry around that makes you a cop...before you set foot in here...that means, before one molecule of your person passes this perimeter. Am I clear?"

 Ray let out a harsh snort of frustration. "For God's sake, Eileen, you know I'm a cop. Why the sudden need to see my badge?"

 "Sorry, Ray. Them's rules. They're a bitch, I know." She smirked, and he gritted his teeth. She knew him too well. She knew there was a reason he wasn't just flashing his badge on command like any other cop. What's worse, he had a feeling she suspected that the reason he wasn't was because that badge was not currently in his possession.

 His fingernails cut into his palms as he clenched his fists. This was not going well, not well at all. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. There was no reason to get uptight. If she saw him getting uptight, she'd really know something was going on. Giving his most charming smile, he leaned casually up against a streetlight. "Look, I got a tip this morning. Detective Kowalski, 54th...he called me on his cell phone. He says that you've pulled up some new info on my partner. I just want to go in there and take a look. No big deal. Promise I won't touch a thing. Cross my heart." He drew one long finger in an X shape over his trench coat.

 She matched his casual manner and bright smile, stepping happily aside. "Sure thing, Ray. Go on ahead. Far be it from me to come between a cop and his partner."

 "Thanks, Eileen, you're a gem." He kissed her quickly on the cheek and started through the break in the perimeter tape...only to be stopped by her nightstick across his chest.

 "Of course," she said, studying the fingernails of the hand that was not holding the nightstick, "I will need to see your badge first."

 Shoving the black wand aside, Ray contemplated barging right into the scene. He was faster than she was, he knew that. On the other hand, however, he would be barging right into the middle of about twenty additional cops. Somehow he didn't think that he could fight his way onto a scene and then expect them to tell him what it was that had Kowalski calling to tell him that "We've found something that ain't lookin' too hot for the Mountie."

 Ray considered the woman before him. Intimidation had not worked. Cajoling had not worked. 

 Now would be a good time for pleading. 

 Using the large green eyes that his Aunt Gina had long compared to those of a particularly morose hound dog, he gave Eileen a small, self-depreciating smile. "C'Mon, what's the deal here? Why the big push for the badge? I mean, hell, you know me. We stood traffic for three weeks on Michigan back in...88, was it? I'd gotten on Kelly's nerves, and that jerk had gotten your knee with the bat. You can't tell me you don't remember."

 "I remember." She laughed. "Only traffic guard partner I'd ever had who courted disaster like that. God, Ray, do you realize what would have happened to you if any of those drivers could lip-read?"

 "Nothing." He shrugged, a wicked light in his eyes. "Unless they could lip-read Italian."

 She punched him in the shoulder affectionately. "Pig."

 "As always, Eileen." This was better. She was warming up. "So, you gonna let me in?"

 "Badge."

 Damn. The worst part about it was the way that the little smile never changed, even as she was turning him down flat. He felt himself get angry, and there was nothing he could do about it. "What's your problem? You know me, dammit!"

 Her smile grew somehow serious and affectionate at the same time. "Yeah, Ray, I know you. I know you're the cop who pissed off Kelly more times than he shoulda been able to get away with, and the one who cussed out drivers in Italian when they got mud on his shoes. You're hot blooded, Ray. If you don't have your badge with you, I'd give hundred to one it's because you've gotten in hot water. If you do...well, just show me, and I'll let you in."

 He didn't try to lie to her, didn't try to tell her she was wrong. They both knew she wasn't. Instead, he simply looked right into those deep brown eyes, allowing his own to be completely honest. "Eileen, please...Benny's my friend, and if they've found something..."

 The dark eyes flickered down and away, unable to meet his own any more. Her voice was quiet. "Ray....I can't. You know I can't. Please...don't do this...."

 Ray didn't answer her. She was right, he shouldn't be doing this. Eileen was only doing her job, her damned job, and he couldn't ask her to get herself in trouble so that he could break the rules. He'd just have to find another way in, another way to find out what Kowalski had been clueing him in on.

 The only problem was, he couldn't think of another way.

 He'd call Kowalski and ask for specifics, but he didn't have the other cop's cell phone number, and if he started asking questions down at the 54th...well, that Lieutenant was a tad too friendly with Welsh. If he mentioned Ray's visit over a deli sandwich and a cup of coffee, that would be the end of things. No, Kowalski was out, unless by some stroke of luck he could run into the guy on his way in or out of the scene. That would be pretty tough considering he had no idea when he worked.

 Welsh had been next on his mind, but that soon faded from possibility. He'd gotten off damn lucky with two weeks suspension. This was not a good time to be pushing for special favors on the case that had gotten him in trouble to begin with. Talking his way onto the scene had also gone rather poorly.

 The only opening left made him wince just to think of, and he racked his brain for something, anything else. He was a cop, and more than that, he was a Vecchio. He had his pride. Unfortunately, it looked like that pride would be forced to make a difficult choice. It was a choice that involved sacrificing it entirely to gather information to help his friend. Gritting his teeth, Ray realized that he would have to do it.

 "God, I hope you're grateful for this, Benny." He muttered bitterly as he jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. This was what friendship really meant. It meant being willing to give up anything for someone, even when they were in no place to give anything back. He truly was giving up everything.

 He was going to have to go crawling back to the Dragon Lady.

  ***

 

To:

 From:

 Subject: Re: Press Release?

 Date: 2:46 PM May 5, 1996

  >Although the main body of this incident concerns America and it's perception of the RCMP, there >are also developing concerns here in Canada as well. Many of our citizens have access to >American news, as you are well aware, and this is causing me some degree of difficulty with my >officers. The attitude of the public is already in some ways compromised towards us, and to put >it kindly, this is not helping. One of my Constables has reported a woman deliberately pulling her >child away from him, her attitude clearly one of fear rather than the trust that needs to exist >between citizens and law enforcement. I know you're probably dreadfully busy, Inspector, but I >have a personal favor to ask of you. Is there any way that you might be able to send me some >information that could help? An additional press release, or even a few tidbits I might be able to >share with my Constables privately? I don't mean to put you on the spot, Meg, but I like to >consider you a friend, and I am asking this as a friend. 

__

 And as a friend, I'm telling you to back the hell off. I'm damned sick and tired of every 

***

Thatcher sighed, letting her head drop back against the headrest of her chair as her fingers fell from the keyboard. She couldn't write that. Staff Sergeant Meers was right. They were friends, and friends didn't take out frustrations on other friends, even via email. 

Fraser had been awake for less than twenty-four hours, yet the information had already gotten out. God only knew how, but if he would care to divulge the information to her, she would have used it to strangle the mortal involved. News Ten at Six had run it on the noon update, and since then, both sides of the border had become more or less hysterical. Her phone had been ringing off the hook and her email deluged. Everyone was begging for information beyond what they could get from CNN. 

Even now, she was trying to type up an official report on the situation. It infuriated her that she, his superior officer, couldn't give them anything more than a glorified version of the noon news. Constable Fraser was awake. He knew who he was. He knew who she was. He knew who the damned American was. They didn't know the extent of his memory loss yet, and probably wouldn't until he could talk without sounding like he was half-drunk and mumbling around a mouthful of marbles. 

Taking a deep, calming breath, she reached for the mug that lay next to her mouse, the moist ring formed by the base staining the RCMP mouse pad. For the time being, she had sworn off coffee, and though she dearly missed the caffeine, she knew it was for the best. All the coffee really had been wearing on her, and it wouldn't kill her to go a few days on chamomile tea. 

She took a deep sip, trying to tell herself that the simple herbal flavor and the light sweetness of honey was doing her good. It didn't work. It just wasn't the same. _Face facts, Meg,_ she resigned herself, _you're a junkie. A damn expresso-latte-whatever-the-hell-it-is-as-long-as-it's-caffinated junkie._

Pushing the mug to the far corner of the desk, she turned back to the keyboard. She had email that needed answering, and like it or not, it needed answering nicely. Looking again at what she had written, she shook her head and tapped at the delete key almost viciously. Now, she needed to start again. 

Almost before she had time to lower her fingers to the keyboard again, there was a knock at the door. Relieved for the diversion, she pushed the chair back, arranging herself to present a professional appearance to her visitor. At the last second, she realized that she was still wearing her glasses and snatched them off, shoving them in a desk drawer. She hated those damned things. They made her look like her mother. 

"Come in." The door opened slowly, almost tentatively, the heavy wood creaking on it's hinges. Turnbull would have to oil them later. Thatcher's jaw did not literally drop when she saw who it was, but it was close. Had she been less self-controlled, it may well have done so. 

Detective Raymond "Arrogant American Ass" Vecchio was standing there in the doorway, his occasionally garish clothing traded in for a remarkably subdued pair of black tailored pants and a moss green turtleneck beneath a black blazer. A rather sheepish, pained smile was on his lips. In his hands were at least a dozen long-stemmed red roses wrapped in green florist's tissue and mixed with a smattering of delicate baby's breath. 

The moment of initial shock faded almost instantly to realization. He was here to beg forgiveness. From the look in his eyes and the roses, he knew exactly how much she disliked him. From his willingness to grovel anyway, she knew that he needed her. He needed her desperately. She was going to enjoy this. 

Carefully, she maintained a completely neutral expression. Her posture was straight, her eyes shielded, her voice level almost to the point of monotone. Men always expected emotion from women. They expected women to want to talk things through, to want to discuss 'feelings'. It made them uncomfortable, but not half as uncomfortable as when a woman was reserved. 

Leaning back slightly in her chair, she allowed her eyes to wander slowly from Vecchio's face to the flowers and back again. "Either you've gotten a job as the FTD flower boy, or you're here to grovel. Which is it, Detective?" 

He paused, then grimaced slightly, his hands tightening on the stems so hard that he nearly crushed them into a green pulp. She noticed that the flowers had been de-thorned. Was it symbolic, perhaps? Or did he just guess that he would be squeezing them like this and not want to impale himself? "Uh, I'm here to apologize, ma'am."

"Apologize?" She gave a slight note to the end of the word, indicating that Vecchio would be wise to continue, as his previous statement had been woefully insufficient. 

Vecchio sighed slightly, "Okay, grovel." 

Thatcher just looked at him. She waited for him to continue. 

"I uh...I'm sorry."

"Sorry..." The 'and?' was unspoken and unneeded. 

"Sorry for kinda losing my temper."

"Kinda?"

"And...I was wrong." It was everything Thatcher could do not to smile. God, he was hating this. He was hating every painful moment of it. Detective Vecchio had a strong sense of pride, something she recognized in him because it existed in herself. She, however, had learned to control the temper than was so dangerous when coupled with pride. Vecchio had never bothered. She doubted he had ever run into a situation like this, where he had to learn to swallow the temper and the pride, yet was not dealing with an authority he could discount or brush off.

He needed to learn that, and moreover, he needed a lesson or two in humility. They were lessons she was more than willing to deliver. "Wrong?"

"And...a jerk." Vecchio paused, then quickly amended. "Sometimes." 

She did not let him get away with the qualifier. "Sometimes?" 

There was a pause, then a short, explosive sigh. "Okay, a lot of the time." 

Nothing had changed in her tone or expression, and it was killing the American. He had no idea if she was going to forgive him, just let him go, decapitate him...or worse. Part of him wanted to demand what she was up to, and another part of him knew that she was completely in control of this situation, and that he couldn't risk offending her. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep down the smug smile. 

Thatcher had to maintain her composure, no matter how hard it was. This was worth it. Oh, yes, watching him squirm like this was so worth it. It was worth every moment of frustration he had caused her, every homicidal fantasy. "A lot of the time...?" 

She could see anger beginning to burn in his eyes, but he didn't lose his temper. A slight, exasperated edge crept into his voice, and he rolled his eyes, throwing the hand that wasn't holding the flowers into the air in frustration. "Okay! Okay! Fine! I was a complete and total jerk. My actions were irresponsible, reckless, thoughtless, reprehensible, unforgivable, inexcusable..." He started to trail off, and she could see that his vocabulary was running out on him. 

Satisfied, Thatcher decided to cut the Detective a little slack. "That will do." The relief was visible on his candid features, as was the humiliation. She felt a moment of misgiving. Had she been too hard on him? Then she remembered sitting in a diner, being herself humiliated as Vecchio ranted and cursed, not caring about the scene he was making or stopping to consider any other than his own narrow way of seeing things. No, she hadn't been too hard on him. 

Meeting Vecchio's gaze, she allowed the slightest bit of that satisfaction to slip through her own hazel eyes. Then her eyes dropped to the bouquet. "Are those for me?" 

He nodded, thrusting them forward like an awkward teenager on a first date. "Yeah." 

For a split second, she was tempted to make him give them to her on his knees, but then she realized that was going a little too far. All right, maybe that was going even more than a little too far. She smiled slightly. "Thank you. You may leave them here." 

Deliberately, she sat down at her desk again. Thatcher picked up a pen, looking at the computer screen for a few moments and letting him wonder if she was through with him or not. Finally, she looked up, making it appear almost an afterthought. "You are dismissed, Detective." 

Indignation swept over his face. "But..." 

"I said, you are dismissed." 

He paused, as if contemplating arguing with her, then turned to go. Seeing the tenseness in his body language, Thatcher called after him. "Detective."

Vecchio stopped, but did not turn back. "Yeah?"

"I'll take you back." She set the pen down, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desktop. "But there is to be an understanding between us." 

He almost looked back, but not quite. "What kind of an understanding?" 

"You are to be the perfect gentleman. The perfect Canadian gentleman. If you ever, _ever_ yell at me again, especially in public, this is over, and no amount of groveling, nor every flower on God's green earth will save your ass." 

This time he did turn, and to her surprise, there was a smile on his face. There was almost a respect in his eyes coupled with the resentment that she had been expecting to see. "Deal." 

 ***

Francis Parker lifted the thick slab of pizza a few centimeters off the surface of the greasy paper plate, carefully keeping the paper napkin in place beneath it due to the plate's compromised integrity. Cheese hung in a heavy string from the tip of the slice, slowly oozing down to puddle on the plate. Pepperoni glistened in the sun, partnered with the peppers, olives, sausage bits, and mushrooms that clung tenuously to the deep-dish heart attack. 

 All in all, it was a classic Chicago deep dish pizza, and it had the potential to be very - if guiltily \- appetizing. Unfortunately, that potential was severely detracted from by the atmosphere in which it had been served. The pizza stand occupied one of Michigan avenue's busiest street corners. Slices rotated beneath the red glare of a heat lamp until one of the hungry passers by surveyed the grease-spotted menu and dropped down the few bills and coins that would liberate them. Then the owner, a great, pot-bellied Czech who spoke barely enough English to conduct his business would fetch the order, wiping the excess grease from his fingers to the soiled apron that was hard pressed to encircle his waist. There was a constant bustle of feet, stirring up dust and exacerbating the choking car exhaust, and Parker winced at the thought of taking a bite. 

 He'd eaten at worse places, that was certain. As a boy in the heart of Atlanta, he had forced himself to believe that every family ate SPAM for Christmas dinner. During his years as a young, struggling journalist, there had been times when his wallet had been so thin that he had been reduced to raiding the salads and cans of diet drink that the secretaries would bring into the office refrigerator. He had bussed tables to receive cheap food at restaurants, eaten at cheap, filthy lunch counters marked 'Colored Only', lived for weeks on canned soup...yes, he had done it all. 

 He never wanted to do it again. Now, he wore three thousand dollar suits, he drank hundred dollar bottles of wine, and he ate his lunches at upscale restaurants where you couldn't get in unless the headwaiter knew your name. Parker did it because he could, because he had made it. Most of all, it was because no one could make him go in the back door ever again. 

 Looking at the oily slice of pizza in his hand, he felt something slimy slither through his insides. Parker had to force himself to re-direct his thoughts from his feelings to reality. Reality was that this was a petulent child's game. Howell had taken him here in juvenile retaliation for Parker's luncheons in the fine restaurants. The boy had no idea of the deeper meanings of this for the older anchorman. He only knew that he was turning 180 degrees from the other journalist's tastes...not hitting him hard in the memories.

 No, Howell didn't know, and Parker had no intention of letting him know. A faintly belligerent light in his dark eyes, the tall black man picked up the trailing edge of the cheese and bit it off. With a long-practiced look that said _see, this doesn't bother me,_ he met Howell's eyes. 

 Sneering, the newspaperman took a large bite of his own pizza, speaking around the wad of bread and cheese and sauce. "So, whaddya think of my lunch spot?"

 Parker paused a moment, taking a second, almost delicate bite out of his own slice and ruminating on it like a French wine taster. "Other than the high risk you're running for any number of exotic varieties of food poisoning \- along with the more run-of-the-mill ailments such as salmonella, botulism, or e-coli - it's fairly good pizza." 

 For a moment, the young man's jaws stopped their actions on the pizza, then he swallowed, grinned, and shrugged. "Hey, I like running on the edge." 

 They stood there for several minutes, eating their lunch in silence, expensive suit and twenty dollar Hard Rock Café tee-shirt both leaning against the brick side of the building. Finally, Howell bit the last of the cheese away from the crust, wrapping the unwanted stick of bread in his soiled plate and napkin. He licked the lingering oil and flecks of sauce from his fingers as he wove his way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk, casually tossing the package in the direction of the nearest trash can. He didn't seem to notice that it didn't make it in. 

 Watching Howell's loose-limbed gait as he made his way back, Parker leisurely finished his own slice. The youthful face approaching was quirked by a slight, snide expression. Clearly, he had found or done something that had him fabulously pleased with himself. So pleased, in fact, that he had boldly called up the anchorman at the television station, inviting him to lunch at "my hangout." It was a bubble that Parker felt needed to be burst. Howell needed to learn that he couldn't expect people to dance to his tune until he himself had taken a turn at paying the piper. 

 Parker carefully timed his last few bites so that he took in the last bit of crust just as Howell made it back to the side of the building. "Just a moment," he apologized, enclosing his own napkin in the paper plate. Placing it in the trash can, he took a moment to reach down and pick up the plate Howell had discarded. He left the crust that had been kicked out onto the sidewalk, the napkin having already been spirited away by the feet of passers by. 

 At last returning to the younger man's side, he held up a hand to stay the eager explosion of information that was poised to burst from Howell's lips. This was not the place. Not here on the streets. Not here where anyone could listen, and by listening, hold the potential to do massive damage. 

 He led Howell a few doors down to the entrance of a large hotel, walking briskly down the scarlet carpet and past the stiffly uniformed doorman who held the brass and glass door for the two men. Ignoring the soaring lobby, dominated by a massive northern pine, he led the way confidently, counting on the other man to either follow or be left behind. The burgundy and gold-suited bellhops juggling massive brass carts of luggage, gaping, aimless tourists, and harried, red-eyed businessmen formed a traffic as thick and haphazard as any on the streets outside, but Parker navigated it without hesitation.

 They soon found their way to the back corner of the lobby, where Parker pushed open an unobtrusive glass door between the gift shop and bathrooms. He could hear the slight catch of breath from Howell as he saw the dark woods and smelled the rich aroma of the little-known, elegant coffee shop. A brightly polished cappuccino machine shined in the subdued lighting, the marble counter top cool and smooth before the leather stools. 

 Only a single other patron was tucked into the far corner. It was a dazed-looking young woman who was staring despondently into a college textbook as she clutched her coffee in a deathgrip, oblivious to the dried white of the foam on her upper lip. Parker smiled, recognizing the look of desperate determination, that feeling that if you stuff one more bit of information into your brain, you'll be picking it off the walls after your head explodes. He knew the girl wouldn't be any trouble to them. 

 He took up a stool in the opposite corner, motioning to Howell to sit opposite him. Quickly, they placed their orders, and Parker was a bit surprised to find that coffee was one area where his partner didn't fit the mold he had established for himself. A whole-milk latte with a dash of nutmeg was not what he had been expecting, and he tried not to look surprised as he placed his own order for a double expresso with a shot of almond syrup and cream. 

 By the time the coffee arrived, Howell was practically bouncing in his seat. Pretending not to notice, Parker sipped slowly at his powerful brew. "You wanted to talk."

 "Yeah." Leaning forward so far that his chin nearly met the polished surface of the table, the young man grinned, flipping his head back a moment before he spoke to toss a few unruly strands of hair out of his eyes. "It's about the Mountie."

 "I had assumed as much." 

 The dry comment passed completely unnoticed. "He's up. I've got a friend who knows this girl who's roommate works next door to the hospital, and the nurses were talkin' about him. He's apparently creeping them out big time. It's like, his body's in neutral and his mind's runnin' the Indy 500. I think we're dealing with some kind of criminal super-genius or something. We might be in trouble if he gets back on his feet."

 Parker sighed. They had gone through all this for a rumor mill. "First of all, Mr. Howell," he said slowly, "I already knew he was awake. I just finished reporting that very fact on the noon news. Or did you miss that?" 

 A blush appeared on Howell's cheeks, but it was matched with a resentment in his eyes. "I'm sorry that I don't spend the hours glued to your every word, oh Great News Guru." 

 Choosing to ignore the sarcasm, Parker continued, rattling off details almost casually. "He awakened at seven twenty-two last night. His return to consciousness was reported to Doctor Gary Doxtetter by Miss Francesca Vecchio, who was with him when he first opened his eyes. Not only was she with him, but she was with him reading a number of choice selections from tawdry grocery store romances. Since then, he has positively identified a number of his closest associates, demonstrated no major shifts in personality, communicated verbally, shown gross cognitive and motor functions, and appears to have retained at least certain memories up to at least one week prior to the accident. Further assessment will be conducted late tomorrow, and by the next day, doctors are expecting to have a good handle on his expected recovery. Oh, and by the way, the thing that caused all the stir with the nurses was that he knew which painkiller he was on...by the smell." 

 There was a long silence from Howell, then a low whistle. "Damn." Slowly, the look of respect faded to a lecherous smile. "So, you shacking up with one of his nurses, Dad? How'd you get all this stuff?" 

 The dark eyes hardened like onyx. "No. I am not 'shacking up' with anyone. A good journalist doesn't have to."

 The young man's grin widened, and he shrugged. "Yeah, but it can sure be fun." Parker's returning glare stopped him cold and he looked down in his coffee, shifting nervously. "Damn, what's up your ass?" 

 "More years of professional experience than you could count...even if you took your socks off and used both feet." The words were as cold as the Italian marble of the table top, and the temperature in the coffee enclave seemed to drop a sudden ten degrees. 

 Chastised, Howell kept his eyes glued to the creamy tan surface of his coffee. "So...uh, how'd you get the info?" 

 "I spoke to one of his nurses. A young lady by the name of Yi Sun. She proved most cooperative." 

 Howell's dark eyes snapped up, and he looked indignant. " _Her_? She wouldn't give me the time of day!" 

 "You, Mr. Howell, apparently did very little research on Miss Sun. Her affair with Doctor McCormick is fairly thinly concealed. A first grader, working off the detailed investigative techniques of 'Harriet The Spy' could likely work it out and be home in time for milk and cookies."

 "You blackmailed her?"

 "No." Parker took a long sip of his expresso. "I don't believe in that. I did observe the affair, but I was intending on keeping quiet. It's none of my business, really, if the entire staff of the hospital is holding a love-in in the ER. Miss Sun, however, saw that I was watching her, and she believed that I was possibly a private investigator working for McCormick's wife. She offered me anything, up to and including her sexual services, if I would keep quiet. I requested detailed updates on Fraser's condition. She has been supplying them. At no time did I blackmail her. I simply did not correct her misapprehensions. Nothing will happen to her if she stops talking to me." 

 " _Sexual services_?" It was clear from the look on the young man's face that he seriously was beginning to regret his lackadaisical field work. 

 "That's not important." Howell didn't seem to believe him, but he went on. "What is important is that right now, we're in a fairly good position. The public is hot. They want to get to the bottom of this, want to see justice done against this hotshot Canadian. The thing is, you know as well as I do that nothing lasts forever. If he can play the wounded soldier to the public long enough, it will all blow over, and he'll walk away, untouched by a public with the attention span of your average toddler. We have to be careful, now more so than ever. If we use too much of Sun's information, we'll be exposed. But we have to keep the pressure on. Let the public know that he's continuing to improve. We can't let him play dumb." 

 "You think that he's gonna pretend that he's a total fruitcake now? Use the whole coma thing to get him off the hook by bein' unfit for trial or something?" Rarely seen genuine interest was in the boyish eyes. 

 "Possibly. It would prevent him from having to answer the tough questions. Sun tells me that his mental status is looking excellent. The public needs to know that. Even if he doesn't remember the incident itself, this isn't the first time he's played this game. He's too good, Howell, he's too damned good at this lily-white business. He's gotten away with it all his life." Swirling the thick expresso in it's demitasse cup, Parker looked deeply into the black liquid, searching as if he could find all the secrets Fraser was locking away by attempting to stare to the bottom of the tiny cup. "But this time is different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "He's never played against anyone who knows the rules to his game." 

 ***

 THE NEXT DAY

DAY 15

***

 "One more question, Constable, and we'll be finished for now. Tell me the last thing you remember in as much detail as possible. Can you do that for me?"

 Fraser nodded slightly, carefully moving his head as little as possible. He hurt. Great Scott, but he hurt. His shoulder felt as though it were being gnawed off by sadistic beavers, and his head felt as though an entire herd of caribou had followed him down from the Yukon, taking up residence in his skull and stampeding around in circles. They'd offered him painkillers for it, but he had refused them. The last thing he needed right now was anything that could impair his thinking. It was already muddy enough.

 That was the worst part about it, really. He'd been injured many times before. Over the years, Fraser had developed a fairly high tolerance of pain. Physical weakness he could handle. He didn't like it, he fought it with all his will, but he could handle the fact that it took all his strength to lift his arms a few centimeters off the sheet. He could handle that he was exhausted after less than two hours of being awake. He could even handle that he was unable to hold his head up off the pillow. 

 But to lose his capacity for reason, for thinking clearly...that was one of the few things that frightened him. It had happened once, rather recently, when he and Ray had been in that plane crash in the Canadian woods. He'd tried to keep up a confident appearance, but it had scared the heck out of him. 

 This time, it was worse. He didn't know how much of it was the injury and how much of it the drugs that they hadn't given him the option of refusing. Simply thinking was like trying to see through a blizzard, recalling each memory like trudging through thigh-high snow. They had told him that he had fallen from a second-story window while stopping a criminal and that he had been severely concussed and comatose for nearly two weeks. They said that he was progressing very well, but he knew better. He knew that it should come easier than this. 

 He carefully ignored the nearly incapacitating headache and the sharp, radiating pain emanating from what he had been told was a severely bruised and sprained shoulder. If he told himself it wasn't there, if he just concentrated on answering the question... 

 "I was in...the Inspector's office." The words came slowly, and he felt a wave of frustration as he realized that he still sounded rather slurred. It was not as bad as before, but it was still not acceptable. 

 The doctor noted the reply. "Do you remember what day that was?"

 Fraser closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The light made the headache worse, and he needed to concentrate. He put every ounce of his energy into recalling every possible detail. It was as if by exactly re-creating that memory in his mind, he could keep his hold on the intellect he was afraid he had lost. "I believe it was...Friday...the nineteenth of April. I was a little over two minutes late...and the Inspector informed me...that I was to be visiting a series of...schools. Yes. A series of schools...the following Monday. She had an itinerary prepared...it was printed out of her inkjet printer...rather than the central laser printer. It was...on Consulate stationary."

 McCormick nodded and made another notation. "Impressive, Constable. Do you remember what it said?" 

 "The date was written across the top, followed by..." His voice trailed off. Fraser frowned. He couldn't remember. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember a single second further. Taking a deep breath, he focused almost desperately, but to no avail. It just wasn't there. "I...I'm sorry." 

 "Don't worry about it." The doctor gave what Fraser knew was meant to be an assuring smile, but it didn't work. Nothing could assure someone who's own mind had turned against him. He couldn't remember what had happened to him, couldn't remember the case his injury had been connected to. What if he had forgotten some vital clue about that case? He could be endangering a life with his weakness, allowing some injustice to go unpunished. 

 Not to mention that he didn't know how many of these holes there would be. Even after the drugs were gone, would there still be this slowness to his thoughts, this uncertainty to his reasoning? If there was, he knew that he would have to retire from the force. It would be unacceptable to have a Mountie who was anything less than at the top of his form, who exhibited anything less than his best judgment and sharpest recollection.

 Fraser felt a shiver of fear run through him, and there was a chill in the pit of his stomach. That was almost worse than the incapacitation itself. Since he was a small boy, he had always thought of himself as a member of the RCMP. The rank of Constable and the affiliation it carried was as much a part of his name now as 'Benton', and his last name was practically synonymous with the RCMP, calling forth a legend that went back for years. 

 If "Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police" became just "Benton Fraser", who would that person be? 

 More important still, would that person be anyone at all?

 ***

He was on time. Really, that was to be expected, considering the reaming-out she had given him at their last encounter, but she hadn't been sure what else to expect. Anger, overblown servitude, or even the possibility of additional flowers had crossed her mind, but nothing of that nature had occurred. Instead, at precisely eight o'clock, Constable Turnbull knocked on her office door to inform her that Detective Vecchio had arrived. 

 She had told Turnbull to let the American in, but just as Vecchio had stepped through the door, the telephone had rung. Waving a hand for him to sit, she lifted the black receiver, her eyes still combing the Detective with a fellow police officer's efficiency as she tried to determine what the balance of power would be that day. "Hello, Inspector Thatcher speaking." 

 The greeting was automatic, even a tad distracted. She was busy analyzing the way Vecchio sat in the chair, back unusually straight, yet with his long limbs as loosely crossed as ever. His clothing was still conservative - tailored khakis with a dark blue pullover - but no longer the formality of yesterday's blazer ensemble. Looking into his eyes, she could tell precisely what he was willing to do. He would be polite, he would attempt to control his temper, he would even go a little bit out of his way to appease her on simple things. He would also not, under any circumstances, crawl again. 

 "Meg! How are things down there in the Windy City?" The voice on the other end of the line snapped her attention back to the telephone call. It was Commissioner Dell, her former mentor and dear friend from Ottawa. 

 "We're withstanding, sir. Is there something I could do for you?" She reached into her desk drawer, withdrawing a legal pad and pen in case she needed to take notes. Stealing a glance up through her eyelashes, she could see Vecchio lean forward slightly in interest at the slight smile that had appeared on her face and in her tone. 

 "Just calling to remind you that Constable Grushka is due in from the airport today. He's scheduled to arrive on the ten-o'clock at O'Hare, but don't worry about picking him up. I told the man you had plenty to do, and that if he couldn't find his way to the Consulate, he should consider that reason enough to turn around and climb back on the next plane back up here." The older man's voice was as jovial as ever, but she could detect a trace of reluctance to it. It was the tone he used when he was trying to avoid bad news.

 A slight crease of worry appeared between her eyes as she frowned. "Is that all, sir?" 

 There was a pause, then his voice again, the jocularity far more forced now. "Just...don't make it too hard on him, Meg. He's a fine officer, and I know he can never replace Ben, but " 

 Something in his tone reminded her all too closely of a father trying to replace his little girl's beloved gerbil. "Constable Fraser was an acceptable officer, but I had no opportunity to form any real professional relationship beyond that. If Constable Grushka can adequately pick up the slack in Fraser's duties, there shouldn't be any difficulties." Her voice was controlled, professional. 

 "Stop it." 

 She blinked. "Excuse me, sir?"

 "You aren't the only upstart officer I've kept an eye on, Meg. I knew Ben Fraser's father, and I knew that boy since he was saluting me at knee-level. You don't have to go pretending that he was an exchangeable piece of office furniture, because we both know he wasn't. He was a pain in the ass to command, I give you that, but he and his father were the last of a good breed." 

 

Thatcher nodded, then realized that Dell couldn't  
see the gesture. She wondered if he were this vehement defending her  
to others. "Yes, sir. But Constable Grushka...when exactly should I expect  
him?"

 There was a pause, then the ruffling of papers and a brief muffled conversation with someone else in his office before his voice returned clearly. Thatcher thought she had heard the words 'I know, I know, I'll tell her," but couldn't be sure. "You know the traffic down there better than I do, but I'd say he'll be there by lunch time." He hesitated, then began again. "I want you to really give this man a chance, Meg. Not just as a stopgap, but as a...uh...possibly more permanent arrangement."

 One plucked eyebrow raised at this. "Sir, I was under the impression that Constable Fraser would be returning to duty if medically possible." 

 "Oh he will, he will." Dell cleared his throat. "How is he doing, anyway? I hear he finally came around."

 "The day before yesterday. Seven thirty or so in the evening." She shifted the phone on her shoulder, brushing away a strand of hair that had become trapped between the receiver and her ear. "I've spoken to the doctors just this morning, and they assure me of his progress. He's completely lucid now, speaking a good bit, and though he's quite weak and there's something of a gap in his memory, they are holding out the expectation of full recovery in a few months."

 "A gap in his memory?"

 "Approximately seventy-two hours prior to the incident itself. They don't believe that information can ever be recovered." 

 She was certain she heard a muffled 'damn' before he spoke into the receiver again. "That's unfortunate, but I'm glad to hear he's doing well. Good news. Good news indeed." He was stalling for time, and she knew it. 

 "About his return to full duty, sir?" 

 "Yes, well, uh..." He took a deep breath, then tried to force a lightness into his voice. "As soon as would medically be acceptable, we're planning to transfer him to a care facility a bit closer to home. Once he's been rehabilitated to service levels, Sergeant Edstedt has an opening at his Franklin Bay post, and we believe Constable Fraser would fit well up there."

 "You want to transfer Constable Fraser to Franklin Bay." Her voice was completely neutral. 

 "Well, I think...we think - that is, the RCMP thinks, that it would be an ideal posting. All Ben's Arctic experience and everything, and you know as well as I do the poor man never did like the city all that well. You understand." She could hear the strain in his voice, the regret at being the messenger. Thatcher decided not to press the point. 

 "I understand perfectly, sir. Will there be anything else?"

 "No, no," he sighed, "just call me when Constable Grushka gets there. Take care, Meg."

 "And you, sir. Goodbye." Slowly, she replaced the glossy black plastic in it's cradle, staring at it for some seconds after she released it. 

 "Mind telling me what all that was about?" Detective Vecchio's voice startled her from her reviere, and she looked up, schooling her features into the cool mask she always used with him. 

 "Constable Grushka is going to be arriving around noon today. I am to evaluate him as a possible replacement for Constable Fraser." Pulling open the file drawer, she leaned down to rummage in it's contents and avoid looking at the American. "I have his folder here somewhere, but I fear in the confusion of the last several days, I don't recall exactly where I put it." 

 "You know, I got a phone call this morning too, Inspector." Beneath the level of her desk, Thatcher frowned curiously. She hadn't been sure exactly what response the news would bring from the volatile Detective, but she hadn't considered this exaggerated nonchalance she was hearing now. 

 "Really?"

 "Yeah. Dief's vet. They did another round of surgery a couple days ago, and things were looking up there for a while, but now he's come down with some kind of multi-systemic infection. They don't think he's gonna pull through, and they're trying to get me to put him down. To ease the suffering." His tone was still casual, still speaking as though relating the weather. "I told them to shove it " She cleared her throat, and he paused, reconsidering, " -- in their ear." 

 "I see." She didn't see. Thatcher didn't see at all what this had to do with Grushka, or for that matter, with Fraser's current situation.

 "Uh huh. Funny thing about vets. Soon as an animal's gotta fight for it, they all just want to send 'em right up to the old happy hunting grounds. It's a lot easier for them, and they say it's usually better for the animal. 'Course, the animal doesn't get too much of a say in it, seeing they don't talk." As she emerged with the file, she saw Vecchio slouching in his chair, examining the fingernails of his right hand. "Me, I won't go for that. I say that no one has a right to put you down unless they ask you. Don't you agree, Inspector?" At the last word, his eyes came up, locking on hers with a laser-like intensity. 

 She held his gaze, then smiled. "Of course, animals cannot talk."

 "Nah, but Mounties can." The casual air vanished as Vecchio leaned forward, resting one arm against the surface of her desk. "We can't let them put Benny down." 

 The intensity in his manner unnerved her, and she looked down as she opened Grushka's manila folder. "They are not planning on euthanizing Constable Fraser." 

 "Maybe not, and maybe I don't know a hell of a lot about Canadian geography, but 'Franklin Bay' or wherever that was that they're gonna ship him sounds like someplace very cold and very north, where they're hoping he'll just sit on his ass, count snowflakes, and not piss off any Eskimos." 

 "They claim that his 'arctic experience' will be valuable there." A tinge of sarcasm crept in, and she did not attempt to restrain it. 

 "Oh, and this would have absolutely nothing to do with all the public relations crap going on down here." He made even less of an attempt at restraining his sarcasm. In fact, Thatcher was willing to bet that he had made no attempt whatsoever.

 A smile slowly raised the corners of her mouth. "Not at all, Detective."

 "Y'know, I don't know what they call it up there, but down here they call this a snowjob." 

 "A common phrase above the border as well, I assure you." Her mind had turned to what Dell had said about Fraser, that he was the last of a breed. Lately, it had been all to clear why that breed was facing extinction. The vultures were ruthless. 

 She bit her lip, imagining the handsome, well-mannered Constable relegated to the Franklin Bay outpost. He wouldn't argue it, she knew, and under other circumstances, might have welcomed the transfer home. Unfortunately, this wasn't that simple. Thatcher knew without a doubt that if he was sent up there, it would be a permanent state of affairs. He would be transferred from one outpost to another for the rest of his career, always in the farthest reaches of the far north, never promoted, never commended, never noticed until the day he died and was quietly buried in body as they would have long ago buried him in spirit. No matter what she thought about Fraser personally, it wasn't right, it wasn't just. 

 Inspector Margaret Thatcher had a very low tolerance for injustice. Her hazel eyes burning with determination, she flipped back to the first clean sheet of the legal pad, uncapping the pen and poising it above the yellow lined paper as she regarded Vecchio. "It is not, however, something that I particularly appreciate being done to fellow officers," she stated firmly. "And I believe it is in our mutual interest to take any possible preventative action."

 Vecchio's eyebrows rose in search of his distant hairline. "That's Canadian for 'let's get moving?" 

 She offered him a genuine smile this time. "An accurate translation, Detective. Now, I've been kept abreast of the official situation, but I have a feeling you know a little more than that." 

 All business, Vecchio brought out his own notepad from his pocket, flipping it open and turning a few pages until he found the proper contents. "I was at the scene a couple of days ago, and I talked to a Detective Kowalski from the fifty-fourth. Gave him my card, and he said he'd call me if anything pressing came up."

 "I take it you received a call."

 "Yeah. Yesterday morning, 'bout six in the morning, he said they'd found something that didn't look good for the Mountie, but he didn't elaborate. No big deal, I mean, he thought I could go there and check it out for myself."

 "Except your badge has been confiscated and they won't let you into the crime scene without identification." His eyes widened, impressed, and she flipped her own notepad closed, slipping the pen into the breast pocket of her suit as she stood. As she took her purse from where it was hanging on the hat stand in the corner of her office, she heard a chair scrape against carpet as Vecchio got to his feet. 

 "Going someplace?"

 Without bothering to turn back, she headed to the door of her office, knowing he would follow. "Detective Vecchio, are you familiar with the concept of a liaison officer?" 

 She heard him snort in amusement. "You could say that."

 "Good. Consider yourself the Assistant American Liaison Officer to the Canadian Investigative team." 

 ***

****

PART FOUR

__

Et Tu Justice

***************************************

She was skating on the razor-edge of crazy, betraying him like this.

 Yi Sun cast another glance at her patient as she busied herself around his room, checking the various monitors and medications attached to his body. He was still too weak to hold his head off the pillow for more than a few seconds much less sit up but his eyes followed her as intently as if she were being targeted by blue lasers. 

 She had been literally stopped in her tracks the first time she had stepped into his room and been confronted by those eyes. Even comatose, it had been clear that God had blessed him with a bit more than his fair share in the looks department, but with his eyes open, it was a whole new ball game. It wasn't just that they were nice eyes, either. She'd seen that on other men before, although she certainly didn't begrudge seeing it again. This time, it was what she could see in them.

 The weakness of his body and the slow, labored quality of his speech were hiding a razor-sharp intellect that only came through in those sparkling sapphires. They seemed to see everything, to know everything, and occasionally his lips would part to reveal some shocking observation that the eyes had taken in. He had identified every single medication flowing into his veins by their effects, the color in the IV bag, and the scent when the nurses changed the bags. He was also the first Caucasian who had ever properly identified her as Korean. Most simply saw ebony hair, golden skin, and almond eyes and automatically assumed Chinese blood.

 Yet for the eyes of a man whom she seriously suspected had an IQ higher than she cared to know, they were remarkably rich with compassion and kindness. Despite his own condition, he never failed to ask how she was doing, and he had instructed for the vast majority of the goodwill floral tonnage he had received to be re-directed to the pediatric wards. 

 It was making her feel incredibly guilty. She had honestly been hoping that he would wake up and be a real bastard, the egomaniac with the hero complex that the media was making him out to be. It wouldn't be anything new. Yi had known more than one handsome young cop who thought he was God's gift to law enforcement, with God's gift to women thrown in as a bonus. 

 Leaking information to that damnable reporter wouldn't have been nearly as difficult if he had been that way. It hadn't been that hard when he was simply comatose, and all she had to say was "still out, no change." That hadn't seemed all that bad. Now, though, she felt like a Russian spy or something, sneaking down to the pay phone near the bakery where she bought lunch, relaying the outcome of every mental and physical test, laying bare his successes and his setbacks alike. 

 Not as if she had a choice or anything. Yi had been caught exiting a supply closet with Dr. McCormick, and though the doctor hadn't seen the figure disappearing around the corner, she had, and she knew that he had seen them. Moreover, she knew that he had seen McCormick's wedding ring, clear as sin on the left hand that also bore a slight smear of Russet Rapture lipstick. She had followed the figure, only to find that it was Francis Parker, the news anchor from Channel Ten News at Six. 

 He hadn't specifically blackmailed her, but he had admitted to having seen them, and of being aware of McCormick's marital status. In response to her pleas, he had said that he "had no reason to spread gossip about the sexual lives of hospital staff." Just as she had turned to leave, breathing a sigh of relief, he had added, "Oh, I understand you're one of the nurses assigned to Constable Fraser." At her hesitant affirmation, he had 'requested' that she keep him abreast of everything happening with the Mountie. She knew what that meant. 

 Now, as she went about her tasks, the weight of her guilt seemed to grow exponentially. It wasn't just a breach of professional conduct that could get her instantly fired, it was...well, not very nice. 

 "Miss Sun?" She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, turning so quickly that she nearly toppled the cart she was standing next to.

 "Yes?" Hopefully, her voice didn't sound as strained to his ears as it did to hers. 

 "Is everything all right? You...seem stressed." Damn. So much for the 'hope he doesn't notice' theory. 

 "Oh, fine, fine. Everything's fine." She tossed her head, flipping a thick strand of black hair out of her eyes. "I've just been working late. Working late. Yes. That's all, just working late. I'm fine." Oh God, she was babbling. If he hadn't known before, he'd certainly know now. In fact, he probably knew exactly what she was doing. He could probably detect leftover sound waves from her telephone calls or something. Hell if she knew how he did any of his Sherlock Holmes tricks. 

 The pale skin around his eyes creased slightly as they narrowed in concern. "Perhaps you should arrange for...a lighter work schedule." 

 Did he have to be so considerate? "Really, I'm okay. Is there anything I can do for you?" 

 Please, let there be something. Some little thing. If she could fetch a soda, fluff a pillow, turn on the radio, she might assuage some of her guilt. Maybe she could atone for her sins somehow by making his life a bit more comfortable. To her dismay, however, he shook his head. "No thank you. I'm...well enough." 

 "Are you sure?" There was a hint of desperation to her tone. "I mean, can I get you something to eat or drink? What about something to read?" Her face lit up. A guy that smart must read books by the truckload. "I can get you just about any kind of book. I bet I could even get you some Canadian kind of thing, like maybe one about snow or ice or dogsleds or something!" 

 A faint smile appeared on his face, but he shook his head again. "That's a very kind gesture, but I'm afraid..." he sighed, then nodded down towards his hands. He closed his eyes, and she saw the strain on his face as he lifted his hands and forearms from the sheets, holding them up only a few seconds before they fell heavily down again. "I wouldn't be able...to hold the book for long." 

 She grimaced in sympathy. "You're awake what, ten hours a day now?"

 "Approximately. I still need...a bit more sleep than I'm...completely accustomed to."

 "You must be awful bored."

 He paused, then a slight, impish sparkle appeared in his eyes as he sheepishly admitted. "Yes."

 "What about a TV?"

 "I really don't need any"

 "Nonsense!" She'd finally hit upon something she could do to ease things for him. She could alleviate his boredom without taxing his strength, and maybe, in some little way, make up for what she was doing to him twice a day over that telephone. "You can watch the Discovery Channel or the History Channel or PBS or one of those other channels." 

 Before Fraser could offer any protest, she had scurried from the room, ready to tackle a maintenance man if necessary to get that television. Within ten minutes, she had a maintenance man and a color set in room L-13. The benefactor of her generosity was protesting as strongly as a badly injured, weakened man could protest...in other words, not nearly enough to sway her. He said he didn't need it, that he didn't want it, that it was too much trouble. She said that when a man resorts to calculating the number of holes in the acoustic tile above his bed, and extending that calculation to the entire hospital, he needed a television. It was a mental health necessity.

 Finally, either she won him over or he gave up. She wasn't sure which, nor did she particularly care. Within twenty minutes of her initial suggestion, the television was installed. She grinned as she looked at the clock. Six oh three. Wouldn't be too deeply into whatever programs had started at the top of the hour. 

 Cheerfully, she picked up the remote and flopped into the chair beside his bed. "So, what's it going to be?" Discovery Channel was what, in the teens somewhere? Yi began to flip through the channels. 

__

 "Only nineteen ninety-nine!"

 "Add just a smidgen of salt to"

 "stole my boyfriend, the little "

 "a lovely lady, who was bringing up"

 "this is the People's Court"

 "saddle up my traveling shoes"

 "add a lovely accent to any parlor"

 "where everybody knows your name"

 "the investigation into Constable"

 "Wait!" Fraser's blue eyes went wide at the last image that had flashed by the screen on Channel Ten. A late-middle-aged black news anchor had been speaking solemnly, a montage graphic visible over his right shoulder. The graphic had shown a RCMP tunic shadowed over a school and slashed over with police tape. 

 Desperately trying to pretend she hadn't heard him, Yi flipped quickly on. "Oh look, it's a thing about polar bears! I bet you know a lot about polar bears." 

 He wasn't so easily distracted. In a calm, quiet voice, he asked, "Miss Sun, could you please return to Channel Ten?" 

 Having little choice, she did so. As Parker's deep voice filled the room with the latest update on the public outcry over the fatally ambitious RCMP officer, she buried her head in her hands. Fraser was silent as he watched, not seeming to notice her at all. Of course, why should he notice her? He was watching himself be verbally eviscerated on national television. How should he know she had helped wield the knife? 

 She finally managed to turn her head to look at him, and what she saw seemed to suck the air from the room. There were a thousand emotions swirling in his eyes like a boiling ocean, a maelstrom of hurt and confusion and guilt. No anger, though. No anger at what they were saying about him. It was almost as if he believed them. 

 Yi ran from the room, her slender body shaking with guilty sobs as she fled to hide in the nurse's lounge. What had she done? Dear God, what had she done?

***

Linda Callard was in earlier than the timesheet demanded for her shift, but she didn't mind. The extra time gave her the ability to do more than the essentials. She had been a nurse for over thirty years now, and while she had a reputation for being brusque to the point of terrifying, that was really mostly for her co-workers. 

 With the patients, she was fiercely maternal. Some of them had actual mothers, devoted women who sat by their sides or came to visit their stricken child. For others, their mother was separated by distance, death, or simply not caring. It was for those that she felt the need to give an extra measure of attention. Being ill or injured enough to be in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital was frightening enough, but it was something no one should have to endure alone. 

 She granted that attention to every man, woman and child on her rounds, from the tattooed gang member with the bullet in his chest, to the young mother desperately praying that a car accident hadn't harmed her unborn child. Callard held their hands when needles were pushed through their flesh, closed their shades when the sunlight was in their eyes, and took the time to braid little girl's hair. It was her duty and her passion, and it was the reason she had become a nurse. Others looked on it in amazement, but for Callard, it was part of her routine.

 Until now. As she signed in at the nurse's station, Callard's eyes flickered to the door of room L-13. She knew who was in there, and the knowledge stirred up a cloud of ill-defined emotions inside her. The unfortunate Mountie reminded her so much of her own son, only where he had been bright and boisterous, this man was quiet and almost unnaturally withdrawn. _But then_ , she reasoned, _he's been through so much._ She sighed. _Thank the Lord he doesn't know how much._

 That was the one bright spot to the entire affair. While it had been difficult enough for him to deal with his physical and mental injuries, he was still blissfully unaware of the venomous assaults being leveled at him by certain members of the media. His friend, Detective Vecchio, had instructed her to take precautions that he wouldn't find out, but she would have done so even without his directive. The last thing that poor Ben needed was to deal with a bunch of liars. 

 Callard began to scan the pile of charts on the desk, looking for any red flags that would alert her to potential problems beginning to develop. She was startled from this regard by the sound of a door slamming. It wasn't a common sound in this particular hall, and she looked up, a dark scowl leveled at the transgressor. 

 It turned out to be Yi Sun, her colleague on the day shift. Callard sniffed. _Colleague, ha! She's a child, and she needs to do her growing up somewhere other than MY hospital!_ Yi seemed terribly upset by something as she dashed for the lounge, and Callard's frown deepened. The girl might have been a bit air-headed, but she didn't tend to frighten easily. 

 Then she saw it. Yi's flight had begun from room L-13. 

 Forgetting all about the charts, Callard all but vaulted the desk in her haste. She burst through the door, expecting to see Fraser teetering at death's door. 

 What she found, instead, was a scene of deceptive calm. There was no blood, nor had Fraser fallen into a coma again or lapsed into a recurrence of the arrhythmia that had nearly claimed him before. Instead, he was propped up slightly against a mound of pillows, his blue eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance in front of him. It gave him the eerie look of a blind man, and for all that he reacted to her entrance, he might as well have been. 

 "Constable?" There was no answer, and she went to call him by name, but stopped. There was something different in here. Someone had added a television, and from the flickering colors and shadows playing over Fraser's pale face, it was on. 

 The screen was flickering rapidly across the channels, the sound completely absent, and it didn't take her long to determine why. A chair had been knocked over - she assumed that Yi did it in the course of her flight, as Fraser was in no condition to turn over a teacup, much less a chair - and the arm was sitting squarely on the remote control. Both the ' _Volume -_ ' and ' _Channel -_ ' buttons had been depressed, pegging the volume at zero and causing a constant cascade from station to station. They were proceeding too fast to be seen individually, but she already knew all she needed to know. 

 It was six oh-five. He must have seen the news. "Constable!" 

 This time, he blinked twice, rapidly, as though trying to dispel a dream. Then he turned his head to look at her, his face trying desperately to school itself back into it's former calm. The result was a mask of shock as plain as any Callard had ever seen. "Ma'am," he whispered.

 Marching over, she snatched up the remote and turned off the offending appliance. As she wagged the remote at him like a black rectangular finger, her voice was harsh, but not angry, the voice of a mother lecturing a child on the rules of the house. "Don't you listen to them! Those things they're saying about you are garbage, that's all. Complete garbage." 

 His eyes seemed to have focused on her a bit more, and he offered the very barest of nods. "Yes, ma'am." 

 "How much did you see?"

 "Not the beginning." He paused, sucking in a short, sharp breath that sounded as though he were being physically stabbed. "But...enough." 

 Tucking the remote into her pocket, she stepped up to the bed, taking his hand in one of hers. "I'm sorry you had to see that, but honey, those people are just trying to sell a story. They don't really care about who they're hurting by it, or even if what they're saying is all together true. What is true is that you saved those kids, and there's nothing else to it." With her other hand, she brushed aside a dark curl that dangled low and unkempt over his forehead. "Do you understand me, Ben?" 

 "Yes, ma'am." 

 He didn't understand. She needed to stay with him, to help him through this, to somehow get this trusting heart to learn skepticism without breaking it. She needed to protect him from the cold claws of the media, as she had been unable to protect her own son. She needed to do so many things, but for now, she needed to set priorities. 

 That television set had not walked into the room of it's own free will, and she was willing to bet that Fraser hadn't asked for it. A simple process of elimination left really only one person, and it was the same person who had fled the scene of the crime, leaving a chair knocked over and a remote control pinned. Yi Sun. This was all her fault, and Callard wasn't going to let her simply walk - or run - out of that hospital until she had owned up to it and paid the price for her actions. 

 Leaning over, she kissed Fraser lightly on the forehead, the corners of her mouth sneaking up just slightly when he reacted, almost as if she had touched him with a live wire. "You just get some sleep now, honey, and forget that you ever heard from those people." 

 Pulling up the covers over his body, she gave him one last smile and a reassuring pat on the hand before she left, turning out the lights as she went. As she closed the door behind her and went in search of Yi, she could still see the terrible shock in those innocent eyes. 

 Callard's teeth clenched and she drew herself up to her full height of six feet, one inch as she strode down the hallways, a boiling rage propelling her after the other nurse. The first directive of a physician, and one that certainly applied to all nurses and other health practitioners was to "do no harm." She was on her way to do a lot of harm to a certain young lady. 

 Hopefully, she had made Fraser feel a little better. At least that might even the score a bit. 

 ***

 At nine o'clock that morning, a glossy black car pulled majestically into the school parking lot, the Canadian flags snapping in red and white contrast to the mirror-like paint job. Combined with the diplomatic plates and tinted windows, the two small banners lent the vehicle an air of royalty. Smooth as black satin, it slipped into the nearest parking space, the maneuvering an absolute dream after Ray's years of experience handling the bulky Riviera. 

 Through the windows, Ray could see the cops on the scene react to their arrival, heads turning in curiosity at this clearly important car. He craned his neck to see who was guarding the entrance. Thankfully, it wasn't Eileen. Had it been her, he had seriously considered telling Thatcher that this would be best done at some other time, playing their bluff against a guard who wasn't quite as expert at reading his poker face. 

 Taking a deep breath, he looked over at the woman sitting next to him in the passenger's seat. "Ready?"

 She tilted down the rearview mirror, checking her reflection and briefly patting down an errant strand of hair from her sleek coif. Ray noted that she was considerate enough to put the mirror back in exactly it's old position when she was finished, a small detail perhaps, but something that drove him nuts about women and mirrors. With her appearance secured, she reached into her purse, extracting a pair of very expensive designer sunglasses. Ray's eyes widened. "Versache?"

 Sliding the glasses into place over her large eyes, she turned to him with a slight cock of her head. "Is there a problem, Detective?" There was a coolness, a wariness to her voice that indicated a readiness to fight. 

 For a moment, Ray bristled, then remembered his own reaction when Benny had questioned his habit of wearing designer clothes on duty. He smiled, opening his jacket just enough to show the label. "Armani. But hey, style is style." 

 "Indeed," she conceded, her quick trigger seemingly disarmed for the moment. Taking only another moment to close and buckle the flap on her purse, she looked up. "Ready." 

 They opened their respective doors and stepped out of the car in near-perfect unison. Ray quickly realized the advantage that Thatcher's shades had leant. Unlike himself, she had no need to stop a moment and raise a hand to shield his eyes from the bright morning sunlight and let them adjust. Instead, she strode on undaunted, her steps even and assured. She was also moving with considerable speed, and he had to half-jog a few steps before he caught up with her as they reached the guard. 

 Instead of Eileen, it was a tall, skinny towheaded youth, barely old enough to wield a badge, his stiff posture and shorn scalp indicating recent military experience. He eyed Thatcher suspiciously, trying to appear intimidating and imposing. Rather than seeing this attempt at infiltration back down in fear, however, they came closer, stopping barely an arms length away. 

 Taking off her glasses and tossing her hair back to place with a single fluid motion, she fixed him with a regal stare. It was something Ray had been on the receiving end of more than once now, and he pitied the poor kid. He didn't have a decade of police work to fall back on when faced with those dark eyes, cold and deep as space. They were the eyes of a coldblooded predator, completely lacking in compassion, yet running over with authority. "Please move aside." It was not a request, but an order in every sense of the word. 

 The guard stiffened, trying to decide if she was simply a particularly self-assured reporter he must turn away, or the authority figure she appeared to be. His voice was significantly higher than his normal tone when he spoke. "Excuse me, ma'am, I need to see some ID before you can come in here. This is a secured area."

 Never breaking eye contact, she reached down and opened her purse with one hand, not fumbling the buckle a moment as she retrieved the small leather wallet within. Holding it up to the guard's eye level, she opened it, the bright metal of her RCMP badge glinting in the sunlight, her photo ID in it's clear pouch alongside. "Inspector Thatcher, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Chief Liaison Officer assigned to the Chicago Metropolitan Area for Inter-Departmental Relations and Affairs of Domestic Concern."

Though clearly intimidated by the lengthy and impressive title, the guard's pale blue eyes still narrowed suspiciously at the unfamiliar identification. Ray inwardly patted the boy on the back. _Never let yourself get pushed around by a big title and a flashy badge unless you're damned sure that the flashy badge means something._ He'd learned that the hard way when he'd once almost released a criminal's accomplice who was wielding a very pretty plastic badge. 

The guard's mouth opened to question Thatcher, but she had clearly anticipated that, and her eyes blazed, her voice dropping to a frightening quietude. "Are you seriously contemplating interfering in the affairs of a representative of a friendly foreign power who is conducting an investigation into matters of state interest and security? Because if you are, I can very quickly go to your superior officer and inform him that you, Officer J. Kiel, are not being very cooperative. Your superior officer would then escort me here to conduct this first-hand investigation into an international incident which is having severe Canadian repercussions. He would escort me here as we stepped over the broken bones of your former career. Is that understood very clearly, Mr. Kiel?" 

With a deep blush staining his cheeks, Kiel stepped aside. "Yes, ma'am." 

Ray began to follow her into the scene, but Kiel stopped him. "Hey! What about " 

Thatcher turned sharply. "That is the Assistant American Liaison Officer to the Canadian Investigative Team. He's with me." 

Something in the way she said it crumbled what resolve the young guard had remaining. He moved aside again, allowing Ray to step through the yellow tape into the crime scene itself. Part of him felt triumph at having made it in, even if it was by way of Thatcher, but another part felt sorry for Kiel. Thatcher was a bully, calculating everything to steamroller over anyone in her path with that damned cold-hearted authority. 

She was the kind of woman men feared, and not just because she was powerful. Ray could respect women in power, he had no problem with that. What he didn't like was women - or men, for that matter - who used their authority like a sledgehammer, sweeping around like they were God's representative on earth. When she had made him grovel in her office, he had been _this_ close to slapping her across the face. Who the hell did she think she was? What made her so high and mighty, so invulnerable, so coldly far above mere mortals? 

As he followed behind her to the doors of the school, his green eyes swept over her petite form. The way she walked, the way her skirt was cut just high enough to be distracting, yet just long enough to be professional...everything was calculated. Everything was honed like a knife to give her that ruthless, heartless edge, to let her..... 

Wait. Ray blinked, then looked again. It was still there. The hand that clutched her purse was white-knuckled and trembling. It was actually trembling, and as he looked, he saw that her knees were shaking a little bit too. The Dragon Lady was afraid. She had actually doubted that she would be able to bluster her way past that guard. She had felt fear, a real, human emotion. 

He was startled, at first, to see this. Upon further reflection, however, he realized that this wasn't the first time he'd seen glimmers of humanity through her icy, cruel facade. In the hospital, when he had interrupted her with Benny, he could have sworn he saw real compassion on her face, real sorrow. And what about when they got that telephone call about the transfer, just that very morning? If that hadn't been anger and sarcasm in her eyes then, he didn't know what was. Inspector Margaret High-And-Mighty Thatcher was human, no matter how much she hated to admit it. 

That humanity was only re-asserted over the next few minutes. Thatcher approached three cops, each time trying to find out the status of the investigation. Ray just stood back, arms crossed, a slight lop-sided smile on his face as he watched her try and strong-arm the Detectives the same way she had the kid at the entrance. The only problem was, these weren't kids, they were hardened city cops, just like he was, and they reacted to her about as well as he had before being forced to cooperate. After her third brusque rejection from a 'too busy' Detective, she turned back to the man trailing her silently. 

He wore a smile that he knew to be completely infuriating, 'I told you so' written all over his face and body language. For a moment, she looked ready to explode at him, and he braced himself. As cold and collected as she kept things, he had a strong feeling that Krakatoa would seem like a minor firecracker if Mt. Thatcher ever really blew. 

To his surprise, however, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her lips visibly moving as she counted silently to herself. When she opened her eyes again, he could see frustration and embarrassment in the dark depths. For once, she had come across something that she couldn't handle, and it was on his home turf. Ray felt the smile grow as he watched her almost palpable distaste for what she was about to have to do. Finally, she licked her lips, and quietly asked, "Detective Vecchio, do you think it would be possible to secure the cooperation of one of these men?" 

The smile burst into a full-fledged grin as he leaned back against the brick side of the school and looked at her. Ma had been right. What goes around eventually comes around, and her little groveling fiasco had now come around. "Please." 

Her eyes widened a moment as if she was going to protest, then she gritted her teeth. "Please."

Should he go for pretty please? Ray contemplated it seriously, then changed his mind. It wouldn't serve any real purpose other than to get her really, really pissed off at him. As much fun as that might be, they did have to work together if they wanted to clear Benny's name. Oh, but it was so tempting.... "Okay."

Ray walked off, and in less than a minute, he had returned with a Detective. He was short and ruddy, with a round face, an unruly head of prematurely graying hair, and a belly that was beginning to consider overhanging his belt. His clothing consisted of rumpled slacks, a wrinkled white dress shirt, and a truly obnoxiously colored tie. All in all, he was a complete contrast to the tall, trim, nattily dressed man beside him. Yet Ray clapped him heartily on the back as he extended his hand to Thatcher. "Inspector, I'd like you to meet Jake Masterson. We were pals back at the Academy, and he says he can show us around the place."

Masterson pumped Thatcher's hand eagerly, not seeming to find any need for diminishing his grip on behalf of a woman. "No problem, Inspector. We're all real sorry to hear about what happened to Fraser." Masterson cocked his head slightly, worry reflected in his brown eyes. "He doin' okay? Hear he finally woke up." 

"He's doing good, Jake," Ray assured him, "I saw him yesterday, and he's still kinda laid out, but he's started talking pretty well." 

"Good to hear, oh that's very good to hear." Masterson nodded solemnly, "I never met the guy, but I heard about what he did up there." He inclined his head towards the window, which no longer gaped, but was covered with two large sheets of plywood. "Damned brave, saving those kids like that. If there's anything I can do to help you guys out, just ask." 

"Could you show us the scene and explain the current forensic findings, Detective?" Thatcher asked. 

Bowing grandly, Masterson offered his arm to the beautiful Inspector. "Sure thing. I'll give you the works." 

'The Works' turned out to be a full day's worth of material. They went over the evidence item by item, interrogating Masterson mercilessly about every minute detail of each finding. Ray was impressed by the change he saw take place the moment Thatcher's attention turned to police work. It was as if the regal mask fell away entirely. She was still reserved and proper, but not really particularly more so than Benny himself. 

From her investigative skills, it was clear that his previous assumptions had been mistaken. Maybe she hadn't gotten her commission over PC - perfect curves _or_ political correctness. She didn't need clarification on any of the police jargon, and she picked up on a few things that even escaped Ray's attention. Much to his chagrin, by the time they stopped briefly for lunch at a corner deli, he was having considerable difficulty imagining her boiling in oil or suspended over a pit of starving crocodiles. 

Indeed, by five o'clock, when the shift rolled over and they were still working, he was almost, _almost_ considering her a colleague. Yet just as he would start to fall over that edge, he would catch a bit of snide superiority in something she said, or that damnable coldness in her eyes. Then he would be reminded that this was the woman who watched Benny be fed to the wolves for over two weeks before she finally got out of her office and came here to actually do something. He would remember that this was the woman who deliberately humiliated him in her office only the day before, and those feelings of camaraderie would take a step back. 

When Kowalski arrived on the second floor just before six, Thatcher wasted no time. His messy appearance didn't seem to bother her, or perhaps she didn't notice. Instead, she strode right up to him and held out her hand. "Inspector Thatcher, RCMP. I'm Constable Fraser's superior officer. I understand that you called Detective Vecchio regarding some evidence that could have an impact on his situation?" 

Kowalski seemed taken aback for a moment by her approach, and he looked to Ray. "Is she?"

Ray nodded. "It's okay, she's on the up and up. I got your call." 

"The call I made yesterday?" A twinkle of amusement was visible in Kowalski's blue eyes. 

"Yeah. I kinda got tied up, but the Inspector and I are here now, so what was it." 

"Like I told ya, bad news." He led them down the hall a few steps, stopping at the last locker before the corner that led to the large window where the accident had occurred. He knelt, and both Ray and Thatcher followed suit. 

The door to the locker had been removed and wrapped in plastic, leaning up against the row of fellow storage compartments. Another sheet of clear plastic was taped over the front of the open space, protecting the contents. Within, the personal items and books had been cleared out of the locker, leaving only a few bits of penned graffiti to indicate that it had once been owned. Some of the metal shelves had broken from their supports, hanging skewed at an odd angle over the bare floor of the locker. 

Thatcher leaned close, removing her glasses from her purse to examine the shelves. "These have been bent by something heavy. Too many books?" 

Kowalski shrugged. "Maybe. We know they fell during the incident. We tracked down the kid who owned it, and he says that they were still up when he got his books out of it jus' before the shootin' started. It's pretty sure the kid overloaded 'em, but something musta happened to make 'em come crashing down all of a sudden." 

Crashing down all of a sudden. The words were familiar, and Ray abruptly realized exactly why. He had read the police interviews with all the children who had been held hostage, and one of them had used practically those exact words in her testimony. He shut his eyes, trying to remember the passage. 

__

"....then there was a noise, like a bunch of books crashing down all of a sudden, and I just knew we were all gonna die. He was gonna kill us all. He started screaming for whoever it was to come out, and I closed my eyes. I opened them again when I heard somebody actually come out like he said, and it was the Mountie...."

Apparently, Thatcher had been following the exact same line of thought. The smooth skin by her eyes creased in worry as she looked into the locker. "Could the crashing noise the witnesses described have been caused by items falling inside this locker?" 

Kowalski shrugged. "Coulda been. We'd thought somebody'd banged against this locker when everybody was runnin' out and made 'em crash, and the noise the witnesses talked about was the backpack we found over there," he pointed at a masking tape "X" on the floor almost directly across the hall, "but then we found this." He tapped the handle of the locker door that had been removed. "You gotta look close."

Ray leaned in close to the handle, but he was unable to make out what he was supposed to see through the plastic. To his relief, Thatcher didn't do any better. Sighing in annoyance, she pulled back. "I don't see anything." 

"Me neither, but the forensics people can," Kowalski admitted. "There's some fibers caught in the handle. Red wool fibers, like the kind in a Mountie coat." 

Suddenly, Ray's throat felt as dry as parchment. "They think he did it." 

"Got his coat caught on the handle, an' when he tried to get it loose, the books came down, makin' the noise." 

"And starting the entire incident." Thatcher's voice was little more than a whisper, here eyes wide with the implications of the discovery. On the one hand, it was possible that he had simply been leaning against the locker and left a few fibers behind, but the other scenario was all too likely, and explained far too many things. The three cops looked at each other, their eyes communicating their mutual worry over the situation. 

Ray opened his mouth to ask if anyone else knew this, but was interrupted by Thatcher's purse ringing. He waited as she extracted her cell phone and flipped it open. "Inspector Thatcher...," she rolled her eyes in exasperation, "Turnbull, calm down...no, no...I haven't...on the scene...Turnbull, what is it?" She gasped, and Ray felt his heart clutch at the pallor that abruptly swept over her face. "My God...Turnbull...are you...yes, yes...I'm on my way. Goodbye." 

With shaking hands, she closed the telephone and returned it to her purse. Yet when she looked back up at Ray, her eyes were burning, and he realized that the tremors in her hands were not from fear, but from anger. "What is it?" 

Her answer was simple, only two words, but it told Ray enough to know that what he had dreaded had finally occurred. "Fraser knows." 

***

"Oh God, Ben, look at my fingers! They're turning black!" The young man was strong and hearty, but his deep voice had risen over an octave in panic. His eyes, as blue as Ben's own, were wide enough that the sclera showed white all the way around the irises, and they brimmed with tears as he held up his hand. His fingers were a pale grayish white, shaded with black on the tips as though they had been rubbed with charcoal. 

Having lost all feeling in his own fingers over two hours ago and hesitant to look at them, Ben tried to force a reassuring tone into his voice. "Put your gloves back on and pull your hands inside your parka so you can stick them under your armpits." 

Insensitive fingers fumbled with the quilted leather and fur of gloves, but they kept dropping to the floor of the tiny tent. "I can't get them on." Oddly, all urgency had vanished from his voice, leaving only a strangely detached tone, as though this was all happening to some other young Mountie in some other tent on top of some other mountain. 

Focusing intently on disciplining his own numb fingers, Ben picked up his friend's dropped gloves and tried to help slip them onto the outstretched hands. He failed three times, but on the fourth try, the stiff fingers went in. Both young men sighed in relief, fogging the frigid air around their faces. Immediately, the gloved hands vanished inside the parka, the sleeves flapping hollow as the arms were tucked up and away. 

Ben watched his friend shiver for a few moments, then turned away as much as the tight confines of the survival tent would allow. He had been twenty-one for less than a month, and Steve was barely three months older. It was really far too young to die, yet if he closed his eyes, he could see their graves. Would they be buried on this lonely mountain? Or would they be taken somewhere else, smoothly carved gravestones marking the quiet resting place of Constables Benton Fraser and Steven Kopzinski, their careers ended before they even really began? 

He huddled down lower, bringing the fur of his parka hood tighter around his face. He could feel the tingling in his cheeks that warned of frostbite, and there was practically no sensation when he touched the tip of his nose. Ben had an odd vision of his entire nose falling off into his hand the next time he tried it. It wasn't a very nice vision. Although he didn't consider himself a particularly vain young man, the thought of walking around without a nose was a bit disturbing, if only because of the stupidity it would signify. 

On the other hand, perhaps he deserved to lose his nose, his fingers, his ears, and his toes. Maybe he even deserved to lose his life. After all, 'stupid' was a word that was just barely beginning to touch on what he had done. His ridiculous hubris, his desire to make a name for himself had gotten them into this predicament in the first place. If he had just been content to do well, they would be safe, but no. He couldn't be content with 'well'. He had to do 'best.' 

It had started simply enough, with some good-natured teasing from his comrades. Through the Academy and over his past six weeks as a commissioned Constable, Ben had learned to deal with teasing. They teased him about being Bob Fraser's son, about leading his class, about his tendency to bury himself in books while his friends were all out chasing girls. Not that he hadn't noticed the girls, or noticed that they seemed to find something about him rather appealing, but he hadn't had the time for them. He also lacked the smoothness of the others in dealing with those mysterious and befuddling creatures. They'd teased him about that awkwardness, too. 

Not once had he let that change the way he did anything, but this time, it had been different. It was Arctic survival training, a post-graduate requisite for any new Constable who would be assigned to rural Arctic duty. For Ben, it was simply coming home, and his classmates were well aware of that fact. 

When he had been paired up with Steven Kopzinski, a top 10% scholar, captain of the hockey team, and a tall, muscular Slav who also had more than his share of the ladies' attention...well, there had been more than a bit of envy. The other teams had said there was no way they could lose. Between their mutual intelligence, Ben's hometown advantage and woodsman's skills, and Steve's massive strength, they seemed to have everything going for them. 

The assignment had been easy enough, a standard survival exercise. They were given only minimal supplies, a map, and a compass. Their job was to navigate their way across a wildly rural course that would take them through the woods, over a river, and up and over a small mountain. All this was to be accomplished in three days, at which time all of the teams were expected to be at the base camp marked where all the routes converged. For Ben, it was little more than the childhood trips he had taken into town and back again. For the others, it was a daunting task indeed, especially in the dead of winter. 

It wasn't meant to be a race, but it had become one. Steve had played along with the joking about the proficiency of their team. Soon, predictions were being made that the team of Fraser and Kopzinski would finish far in the lead. 

The idea was an appealing one to Ben. Despite the brief duration of his career, he had spent it all in the shadow of his father. At the Academy, he was always 'Bob Fraser's Boy' and his every move, every accomplishment were all 'just like his father.' This was an opportunity to best his father. Robert Fraser had never had the native coaching and wilderness experience his son had been given, and thus, Ben had the chance to outshine his father's star. He could possibly even set a record for this course and thus begin to establish his own legend!

He had agreed almost immediately, and they had set out with visions of glory in their minds. A few miles into the trek, with Ben's wilderness experience making the going almost childishly easy, they had set upon a further idea. They would make the route in just a little over two days instead of a full three. 

That had been Ben's idea. He knew that he could push himself that hard, and if he pulled on every bit of reserve he had within him, he could make it in that unheard-of time. Steve agreed wholeheartedly. The two doubled their pace, hiking long into the night and rising early the next morning. By mid-afternoon on the second day, they were already almost halfway up the mountain. From the vantage of the mountainside, he could see a vicious storm brewing on the horizon. He had decided that rather than turn back, they should press on, try and get up and over to the lee side of the crag. 

It was more than Steve could do. Even on his own, and as fit and experienced as he was on that terrain, Ben Fraser would have been hard-pressed to make it. A city youth, though in remarkable physical condition as a star hockey player, lacked the adaptation to the thin, cold air, as well as the mountain-goat-like agility amongst the rocks. By the time it was clear they weren't going to make it over the top, it was too late to turn back. The storm was almost upon them. 

The call had come over their emergency radios to assemble at a central location. The exercise was being aborted due to the storm, and had they been at the expected point on their routes, the clearing chosen would have been easily within their reach. They were not close enough to even have hope of getting there in time, and were forced to watch as the helicopter retrieved the others. It came in for them next, only to be turned away by the winds howling angrily around the crag. 

All they could do was to find some small shelter among the rocks and erect an emergency tent to hide within. Ben had no idea how long they had been closed into that tiny space, on the very edge of freezing outright, watching their skin pale and blacken, listening to the winds shriek outside the thin protection of the fragile tent. He knew that it had been far, far too long. He knew that they were already beginning to succumb to frostbite, and that their sleepiness meant that hypothermia was digging her chilled fingers into their minds. He knew that they could die. And he knew that it was all his fault.

"All my fault." 

Constable Benton Fraser raised one hand slightly from the sheets of his hospital bed, looking at the pale fingers in the harsh fluorescent light. He could still see the thin white scars on the pads of four of his fingers where he had lost a few bits of tissue that night over a decade ago. Steve had lost two toes as well, but both had counted themselves lucky to have simply survived. 

Though neither young man had technically violated any rules, and were thus not officially punished, they had received a reaming-out that he had never forgotten. 'Personal Ambition', 'Pride', and 'Hubris' were not words that belonged in the vocabulary of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman. They were words that got people killed, and the most common find on the search for glory was disaster. 

The world was an unforgiving place, and the rules for navigating it were simple. If you didn't know, find someone who did and let them teach you. If you knew you couldn't do it, don't try. If there was someone better at it, let them do it. If there was someone stronger, let them take part of the load. If you thought you could, and someone else knew he could, do it together, but don't try it alone. 

Ben thought those were rules he could never forget, drilled into his head by one of the most frightening nights of his life. Yet there was his rebuttal, in living color on national television. The truth was exposed, and when all had been accounted for, he was found badly wanting. 

He had apparently acted rashly, out of some grossly inflated idea of his own abilities, and as a result started a terrible chain of events. That chain had ended with one death, and could likely have ended in more. The stakes had been far higher than fingers or toes, but he had played the game again, and he had lost. He had lost badly. 

Should he have waited for the SWAT team? Did he cause a disruption that began the entire affair? Did he allow Diefenbaker to senselessly attack? Did he attack someone who was in a position to kill hostages if he lost the battle? Was he even acting brashly to be there in the first place, rather than waiting for the police who actually had jurisdiction and did carry weapons beyond a small knife? Had he really been so eager to be the 'hero' who 'saved the children' that he nearly got them killed? And was this really a 'pattern of behavior' that he simply hadn't seen?

They were questions that he couldn't answer easily, as his memory of the time in question was completely blank. Yet he already knew the answers. He had seen them twenty minutes ago, at six o'clock. 

Despite all the lessons he thought he had learned, he had done it all over again. He had made foolish choices, overstepped his skills in pursuit of personal glory...only this time, someone _had_ died for it.

***

Lieutenant Harding Welsh hated hospitals. 

He hated the way they looked, with their gleaming, sterile surfaces and mind-numbingly neutral beige walls, as though all the humanity had been surgically removed from them. He hated the way they smelled, like cleaning fluid and stale air and medication and sickness. Most of all, he hated the way they made him remember. They made him think of officers down, of arriving too late, of folded flags and black armbands, of letters of consolation that did nothing to console the families. 

When he had first been commissioned as a Lieutenant, he had considered it his duty to come to the hospital every time an officer under his command had been injured. At each call of 'officer down', he would race to his car and head to the hospital where the wounded cop had been transported. Once, he had even arrived ahead of the ambulance. 

Soon, however, he found out that when a man is badly injured, even dying, he doesn't want to see his boss. They wanted to see family, friends - one cop had even asked to say goodbye to his dog - but they never wanted to see their boss. His presence accomplished little, and in return, he had to watch them suffer. Even if the guy lived and returned to work, you could never look at him again without seeing him in your mind's eye, bloodied and torn, screaming with the pain. If they didn't live...well, that's what nightmares were made of and what Tums were made for. 

For several years now, he had avoided visiting until the cop in question made it clear that he was receiving visitors outside his family and closest friends. Then, and only then, would he come in with a few words about courage in the line of duty. 

The situation had become a little more complicated when Fraser was hurt. Technically, Constable Fraser wasn't under his command, but that didn't bother Welsh in the slightest. As far as he was concerned, he had scolded him, praised him, and sent him out on assignments with Vecchio where there was a more than decent chance that the guy would get his red-coated butt shot off. That made him one of Welsh's boys, and Harding Welsh stood behind his boys.

What complicated it was this whole pile of crap with the media. This wasn't the first time Welsh had seen them go into a feeding frenzy over some poor sucker, but he had never seen one quite this vicious. It made his blood boil to watch it, and he defended Fraser as much as the head office would let him, which wasn't nearly enough. The worst thing about it had been that they went after the Canadian while he was still in a coma and unable to respond, and they were still ripping into him even now, while he was still trying to get his feet back under him. _You'd think even those vultures would wait until the prey was either all the way dead or recovered._

He hadn't visited the Mountie yet, knowing that even after his life was out of danger, it was useless to visit him when he was comatose. Even after he had awakened, the unofficial reports from Vecchio had said he was in pretty bad shape. Welsh wouldn't pretend to understand a fraction of what went on in that snowed-in brain of Fraser's, but he knew that the younger man had a deep sense of personal dignity. He wouldn't want to be seen in that condition. 

So it had come as a surprise when the phone had rung that morning, and it had been Fraser on the other end. His voice was a little bit slower, a little bit quieter than what Welsh remembered, but it sounded more like a man who's just pulled double shifts than a man on the brink of death. The Mountie had asked him to come by, if at all possible, and bring "any acceptable information concerning the recent school shooting incident." 

Welsh had contemplated the request for a moment, then decided to honor it. Obviously, the guy was trying to fight back, and if, as Vecchio said, his memory looked like a piece of swiss cheese, he'd need something to fill in the holes. The Lieutenant wasn't entirely sure of the protocols for sharing case information with someone who wasn't being charged with anything officially, yet was being charged with everything short of genocide by the press. He was, however, very sure that if he called on it, it would get run through a thousand and twelve bureaucrats and come out with a 'no.' 

He wasn't about to give Constable Fraser a 'no.' Finding out what happened was the least the guy deserved, and after he had risked his life for the Chicago PD so many times, Welsh could sure as hell risk a little official displeasure. Which was why he was here now, in the hospital he so despised, walking down the corridor to room L-13, a file folder thick as one of Pat Scarpetta's deli sandwiches tucked under his arm. 

The door to Fraser's room was ajar a couple of inches, and he paused a moment, wondering if he should knock. Deciding that a nurse might have left it open, he rapped his knuckles on the frame. "Constable?"

Fraser's voice sounded much stronger than it had on the phone, though still a bit tired. "Please come in, Leftenant." 

Welsh stepped inside, holding up the folder for Fraser to see. "I brought some..." Looking at the figure in the bed, he nearly stopped short, but thirty years of police work kicked in, and he barely skipped a beat. "...stuff to go over. Couple of reports, some photos to start with." 

As he sat down in the side chair and opened the folder on his knee, it was all he could do not to stare. Vecchio had warned him the Mountie was in "pretty bad shape", but thinking back, he realized that he had imagined Fraser as looking a little pale, a little worn-out, like a guy just coming back from a really bad case of the flu. He did know that he hadn't expected him to look like the living dead. 

"Vecchio's report makes for some fine reading." He lifted the stapled pages from the stack and handed them to the Canadian. "You can read, right?" 

"Yes, sir, although I cannot write as of yet." 

Welsh nodded in satisfaction, though he noted that Fraser lay his forearms flat on his lap and looked down at the papers in his hands rather than holding them up to eye level. Recognizing the reason behind this, he held up the first of the photographs himself. "Two black and white glossies here, one media, one from our guys. This is the first time you came into the picture." 

The image barely showed his reflection tangled with Jason Pittman's. Glare on the window made it hard to make out, but it was still clear that they had already become entangled. The second picture was not much different, except that the pose was perhaps a few fractions of a second earlier or later. Welsh brought out additional photos, narrating the forty-five seconds of combat they had a chance to view before the dramatic plunge out the window. 

"May I look at them a bit closer, Leftenant?" Fraser held out his hand for the photos, and Welsh handed them over, his eyes scanning the room as the Mountie thumbed through the pictures. There weren't many flowers in the room, and he liked that. Most hospital rooms wound up looking like a greenhouse after a while. No books sat on the side table, but a newspaper was folded there, and he picked it up. 

It was the front section, the newsprint neatly folded to isolate a single column about Fraser's role in the shooting. At the top of the column, a badly printed photograph of a young man smiled authorship. The kid didn't look like he could have been more than twenty-one at most, his longish hair falling in college rebel strands over his eyes. His name was Chad Howell, and as Welsh scanned the text, he decided that Mr. Howell's face wasn't the only thing he didn't like. The writing itself was halfway decent, but it relied completely on sniping and a sarcastic wit. Actual investigative reporting was not to be found, not to mention facts. Welsh had heard more facts from pathological liars on crack. 

"I'm planning to resign." Fraser's words snapped the Lieutenant's head up from the paper abruptly. 

"Excuse me, Constable?" He couldn't have heard that right. Maybe he was overdue to have his hearing examined. 

"I am planning to resign from the RCMP, sir." Maybe he didn't need to have his hearing examined. Maybe Fraser needed to have his head examined. The Mountie was just looking solemnly at him, his eyes indicating complete awareness of what Welsh was reading on the other side of that newspaper. 

Welsh dropped the paper back on the side table like the shit it was. "Like hell you are." 

"I've considered it carefully, sir. I've dishonored the organization. It would be best if I simply left quietly." The resignation in the younger man's tone made Welsh's blood boil. They'd brought him to this. Chad Howell and the assholes on the television and all those other sons of bitches had brought one of the best young cops he'd ever known to the point of resignation. That wasn't right, and Harding Welsh still liked to think he was in his job pursuing some kind of justice. 

Leaning back, he regarded Fraser. "You're just going to resign. Just like that," he snapped two thick fingers together loudly, "just up and resign." 

Fraser nodded. "It's for the best." 

God, this was ripping the poor guy to pieces. Welsh knew that being a Mountie was what Fraser was all about. He had no social life other than hanging out with Vecchio, and the Lieutenant couldn't think of a single time he'd seen him wearing anything other than some variation on the RCMP uniform. He ate, slept, and breathed law enforcement, and he loved it. It was a passion that Welsh understood, but what he didn't understand was Fraser's willingness to just give up like this. The Mountie had always had a martyr streak that was hard to follow. 

Casually, he laced his thick arms behind his head and shrugged. "For you, maybe. But whaddabout the rest of us?" 

The smooth, pale brow furrowed. "The rest of you?" 

"You run off, and you're admitting guilt. You know that, I know that. Now maybe _you_ don't care, maybe this is the easy way out, but how do you think it's gonna look for the rest of us? If you're guilty of all this crap, that's saying that I don't know enough to tell when I've got a rogue officer on my hands and to keep him off the streets. That's saying Vecchio's got a death wish, and that your Inspector Thatcher likes to let dangerous men traipse around Chicago. All in all, it does not reflect too well on the Chicago PD or the RCMP." He let his words hang, seeing the shock of realization in the blue eyes. 

Fraser'd never thought of it that way before, that much was clear. He was so busy climbing up on the sacrificial pyre that he hadn't noticed who else he was dragging along with him. Slowly, he shook his head, as if not quite sure of what he'd heard. "I...I've dishonored the RCMP...." 

"Bullshit." The sharp word cut Fraser off abruptly, and Welsh continued. "I've been on the force for thirty two years. Fifteen of those as a Lieutenant. I've seen plenty of real glory hogs, officers who'll take all kinds of stupid risks to get their mugs on the front page. Generally speaking, those guys don't tend to also write their own reprimands for supervisory officers who don't belong to their country. So unless you're telling me that my judgment is totally screwed, I'm telling you that what the media is feeding you is bullshit." 

Welsh stood, dropping the folder and it's remaining contents onto Fraser's lap. He knew the Mountie needed to think now, and he'd leave the guy alone to do that. Moving to the door, he put one hand over the knob, then turned back to the Mountie. "You need anything else, you call me." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good." He started to step out the door, then at the last minute, he stopped. "Oh, and Constable, if I hear any more of that resigning crap, I am not likely to find it amusing." 

***

THREE HOURS LATER

***

"Hey." 

The voice - cheerful, feminine, and familiar - startled Fraser from his reading. He looked up, only to find his eyes traveling up a pair of long, slender legs, a shapely torso, and ending at laughing blue eyes framed by a pretty face and medium-length blonde hair. The woman stepped out of his doorway, holding a covered tray in front of her. She was not dressed as the other nurses, but rather in a pair of dark blue shorts and a hospital polo shirt, white athletic shoes laced snugly onto her feet. 

Fraser smiled. "Miss Kennedy." 

She greeted him with an answering smile, then carried the tray over, setting it on his bedside table as she sat herself on the edge of his bed. "Jill," she corrected, her tone implying that he should have used her given name from the very beginning. 

"Jill." He looked at her an awkward moment, unsure whether he should say that he was pleased to see her, or remind her that he was not in a condition to begin physical therapy for some time now. He didn't get a change to choose, as her intelligent eyes were roaming over his body, a slight twinkle evident. 

"The ICP bolt sticking out of the side of your head would indicate some kind of intercranial bleeding...probably a good-sized hemorrhage considering that it's still in there. Remains of a lovely lump there too...I'd say you fell twenty, twenty-five feet. There's a small cut to your right ear that looks like glass, so I'd say you went out a window. You've got some fairly serious abrasions to the right side of your face, so you fell onto concrete. You're still here, though, so that means something probably broke your fall at least a little. Right shoulder badly sprained, but not broken. Bruises...ow, just about everywhere. You've only been in here for sixteen days, but you've dropped...hmm...I'd say almost twenty pounds. There aren't that many drug cocktails that can push the metabolism that high, and combined with the bolt, I'd say they were keeping you comatose to let the bleed heal." She folded her arms across her chest, leaning back a bit to take in the full picture. "All in all, you look like hell." 

The almost formal smile that had been painted on the corners of Fraser's mouth now blossomed into amused reality. "You've deduced me again." 

"Actually, I just looked at your chart." Kennedy confessed. "But I'm sure you can still be quite deductive yourself." 

Letting himself relax into the pillows, Fraser studied her, forcing his tired mind to focus completely on the task at hand. It was not an unpleasant task, and he felt quite comfortable - even a little pleased \- to be deducing her. 

Jill Kennedy was one of the few women he had known since coming to Chicago whom he felt not the least bit awkward around. Perhaps it was the circumstances of their meeting, or the fact that she had never offered more than the mildest of romantic overtures. Rather than the infamous interest shown by most of Chicago's women, she had lightly indicated that she was open to the possibility, then been quite content with an emotionally close, intellectually fascinating friendship. It was that friendship he had treasured and enjoyed, and that friendship that had helped him through one of the most devastating times in his life. 

"You continue in physical therapy, as evidenced by the smell of muscle liniment about your person, as well as the fact that there has been no loss of tone in specific muscle groups in the four months since I last had the opportunity to see you. You have recently completed or are in the process of completing a massage therapy course, as your hands and fingernails show the effects of prolonged contact with massage oil...at an intensive degree that would only be found during a course, rather than the comparative rarity of massage in daily therapeutic activities. Also, your thumbs and fingers show increased musculature at the joints, which is again indicative of massage therapy. You recently had a difficult session in the pool, which resulted in a good deal of chlorinated water splashing into your eyes, reddening them slightly. You had a bagel with herbed cream cheese for breakfast, as there is a small amount of the cream cheese dried just above your upper lip...I would estimate you ate at 6 o'clock this morning. And you've changed your shampoo. I believe it is apple now." 

"Conditioner. The shampoo is still coconut." The sparkle in her eyes brightened, and she almost laughed. Fraser found himself wanting to ask her to please go ahead and do it. He hadn't heard anyone really, openly laugh since he awoke, and he suddenly realized how much he missed it. He missed laughter, smiles, and normal conversation. 

Kennedy was the first person who had visited who wasn't treating him like an invalid, or insisting on talking about the incident. When he thought about that, he realized that she had done the same thing for him after...well, after the other thing. He didn't want her to leave, but unfortunately, he knew that she was probably there on a miscommunication. "Miss Ke - Jill, may I ask why you're here?" 

She lifted the tray from it's resting place, balancing it with one hand as she slid the papers off his lap into a neat stack. Setting it on his now-vacant lap, she lifted the lid. "I'm here as the bearer of bad tidings. As of today, you're being reintroduced to solid foods." 

Fraser had to fight back the urge to make a face at what he saw. Technically, he knew it was supposed to be grilled cheese and chicken noodle soup. The thin yellow liquid and the triangles of white bread with the orange plastic-like substance pressed between them, however, bore no resemblance to actual food. "Oh dear." 

"I'd have gotten you another chili dog, but your nurse was adamant that you keep it bland for now."

Did she have to remind him of the chili dogs? Little or no nutritional value, perhaps, but they had been very, very good, and their memory was making the offering in front of him look even less appetizing. He picked up the spoon, dipping it experimentally into the 'soup' and lifting it for a sniff. It smelled...like practically nothing. If Callard wanted him to keep it bland, she certainly was succeeding. 

Seeing the dismayed look on his face, Kennedy patted him reassuringly on the leg. "I've pulled in some favors, and I'm going to be your therapist again. I'll have you standing in front of the Consulate and eating chili dogs inside three months." 

The spoon froze halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it back down to the bowl, staring at the little beads of oil floating there as he tried to think of what to say. 'Thank you kindly' would be appropriate, he knew, but those three words that he said so easily and so often now seemed to stick in his throat. "Thank you," he managed, "but I'm not sure I'll be returning to work." 

"Nonsense. There's been no permanent damage. All we're going to have to do is get your strength back and remind your brain how to work a few things." She paused, her voice taking on an air of deceptive nonchalance. "Unless you mean that other thing."

"Other thing?"

"The thing we're not talking about this time. You know...the one spread out all over your bed." 

Fraser looked down at the folder, and the scattered contents of reports and photographs. "Then you know."

"Unlike you, I haven't been in a coma the last two weeks."

"Ah." She was right, of course. She would have had plenty of access to the mass media, and had probably been following the story as intently as everyone else. There was no point in trying to hide anything from her. "I was planning on resigning from the force, however, I spoke to Leftenant Welsh this morning, and he seems to think that would reflect badly on those whom I've served with. I...I'm not entirely sure what I am going to do now."

"Why not?"

He looked up, quizzically. How could she see something like this as a simple choice? "Because I don't want to dishonor the RCMP by remaining, but I don't want to hurt Detective Vecchio, Leftenant Welsh, or Inspector Thatcher by leaving."

Her blue eyes were locked with his. "What about you?" 

Fraser blinked. "Excuse me?" 

Instead of replying, Kennedy reached for his hand. For a moment, he thought it was a gesture of support or sympathy. Then she turned his hand palm-up in her own and began to slowly, deliberately work her thumbs in deep circles on his palm and down each finger. His eyes widened in surprise at first, then involuntarily began to close. It felt wonderful, but seemed a rather odd way to hold a discussion. "What are you doing?" he asked. 

"I'm massaging your hand." 

"Why?" The word came out half a sigh. No one had ever done anything like this before. When he was a little boy, he vaguely remembered his mother smoothing her hands over his back as he fell asleep, but no one had ever actually given him any kind of massage. He had neither needed nor requested it, and though he knew the therapeutic effects it could have, he had really never considered simply how good it could feel. 

"Do you like it?"

"Yes...but I don't understand. Why are you...?" 

She didn't pause a moment, simply turned his hand over and began to glide her fingers between the tendons. "That doesn't matter. It's not hurting me, and considering that you're almost drooling, I don't think it's hurting you. Let yourself enjoy an indulgence for once...do something just because you like it."

"I can't. I don't believe I can...reciprocate in my current condition." So why was he not making any attempt to pull his hand away? Part of his mind said it was because it would be rude, but another, more honest part of his mind pointed out that his hand seemed to have generated a mind of it's own. That mind had no intent of going anywhere. 

"I don't think you're getting the point here." She softly rolled the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. "There is nothing wrong with letting someone rub your hand, or treating yourself to an ice cream when you're depressed, or going to the movies even when you aren't taking someone. There is nothing wrong with Benton Fraser doing something for Benton Fraser every once in a while." 

"I visit the library frequently." He protested. 

"What was the last title you checked out?"

Fraser paused, thinking. " _Chicago Architecture 1940-1960._ " 

"Was that for your own reading pleasure, or to learn more about Chicago so you could solve crimes here?" He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Kennedy went on. "There is nothing wrong with doing something for yourself occasionally, and there is nothing wrong with standing up for yourself, either. Not because the RCMP is getting screwed, not because your friends are getting screwed, and not because your boss is getting screwed. Because _you're_ getting screwed." 

His head was spinning, and not from the massage. Only once before had anyone condoned selfishness to him before, and he had really taken Ray's advice with a very large grain of salt. After all, situations like being trapped in a flooding bank vault tended to harm Ray's objectivity. What he took with no salt whatsoever was the teachings of his childhood. 

From the moment he had gone to live with his grandparents, they had been very clear on the issue of selfishness. His father was a legend to admire because he was so unselfish, because he would give up life and limb to bring men to justice. He had to be unselfish, understanding that things like bulldozers and guppies were impractical, selfish presents. It was selfish to complain about his little arms hurting after stacking wood all day, because Grandpa had arthritis, and his arms always hurt. And hadn't all those lessons been good for him? Hadn't they taught him to be strong and brave and stoic and self-reliant? 

Or, a little voice rebelliously questioned, had they also taught him other things. Had they taught him pride? Had they taught him to almost want to martyr himself? Taught him that he could stand up for justice, for ideas, for society, but never, ever stand up for just himself? 

True, there were times when standing up for oneself _was_ selfish. But was this one of them? Would it be such a sin to attempt to save himself this time, as long as he remained within the boundaries of factual investigation? If he did find himself to be really and truly guilty, he knew he would take the punishment, but would it be so selfish to try and find out for himself? 

He opened his eyes, but wasn't quite able to meet Kennedy's. "Are you saying I should..."

"Fight back? Try and find out just what the hell they think gives them the right to say these things about you? Tell your side of the story? Hell yes, I think you should."

Reluctantly, he slid his hand out of hers, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. "I'm not a saint, Jill. I've heard people call me that, but I'm not. I've done things..."

"I know. You're not the clumsy type." She paused, a slight smile reappearing on her face. "But if you're not a saint, you can't be a martyr either, so that leaves a human being. And as a therapist, I can state from experience that human beings have remarkable survival instincts." 

Fraser didn't know how to reply, and she didn't ask for one. Instead, she just stood and looked at him for a moment. The smile seemed to grow to one side with a definite air of mischief to it. She leaned down, whispering into his ear. "Stand up for yourself, and I'll show you what a back rub feels like." Then she was gone. 

He stared at the door for several seconds after she left, then looked down at the tray that still sat on his lap. The food looked even less appealing, and he pushed it to the side. It wasn't just that it didn't look very good - he had eaten far worse - but he was too busy thinking to bother eating. 

Resignation for dishonor, while it meant giving up the dreams and successes of a lifetime, had held an odd kind of comfort. It had been a certainty, and it had given him a small measure of control over a life that seemed to have recently delighted in flying completely out of his control. Fighting back, on the other hand, was....

His eyes suddenly widened with realization. Fighting back was an investigation. Investigations were something he knew, and knew well, and they held their own certainty. If conducted properly, there was usually an irrefutable right and an irrefutable wrong at the end. Therein lay his certainty, his control. It didn't have to be about selfishness, it could be about truth. 

And maybe, just maybe, in some deep-down selfish little corner of his mind, it could be about finding out what a back rub felt like. 

*** 

TWO DAYS LATER

DAY 18

8:45 AM

***

In his office at News Ten at Six, Francis Parker looked over the dailies from the wire service, playing his morning game of second-guessing the producers. Every morning, Rutgers and Associated Press alone brought in hundreds of possible stories, ranging from fire, famine, and flood to the more mundane issues such as local curiosities. Technically, he wasn't 'at work' until nine, but he always liked to come in early and try his hand at the dailies. Over the years, Parker had developed an accurate taste for which of those stories would make it to the comparatively few slots of the nightly news. 

One aspect that always helped was local relevance. There was an old journalist's rule of thumb that was harsh, but all too true. One person dead in your city was worth five dead in the next city over, were worth fifty dead in the next state, were worth five hundred dead in China. Guided by that, as well as the network's love of sensation, he knew that number 32 would at least make the first cut. A wino had been found dead in an alley nothing new there, but he'd been doused in alcohol and set on fire afterwards. It was unusual, juicy, and smacked of a killer with a few loose screws. Number 32 had a good chance of making it all the way.

Number 47 was trash. So some marching band in Cleveland was on an exchange to Japan? No one in Chicago would be interested in that. Parker knew number 47 wouldn't even make the first cut. 

Number 53 was more of a challenge. It was certainly strange enough - an elderly woman who ran a shelter for rats, 'rescuing' them from condemned buildings. On the other hand, it was in New York, and while that ran the local interest factor down, it was at least a big city. Rats were rats, and it didn't matter if you overlooked Ellis Island or Lake Superior, if you lived in a city, you'd at least seen the furry little bastards. 

Parker leaned back in his plush leather chair, reaching for his coffee mug with one hand as he used the other to scroll down the details of the rat story. He didn't have a chance to get very far when the phone rang. Setting the coffee back down, he lifted the receiver. "Francis Parker, News Ten at Six On Your Side." 

"I'm sorry for calling so early, Mr. Parker, but the receptionist assured me that you were in." Almost without thinking, Parker analyzed the caller. Male, Caucasian by the sound of things, young, but not too young...somewhere in his thirties probably, well educated, and...Canadian. Definitely Canadian. 

The journalist's eyes widened. Could it be.... "Who is this, please?" 

"Constable Fraser, sir. I was calling to inquire as to your schedule this afternoon. Do you think it would be possible to come over to the hospital? I'd like to discuss the investigation into the recent shooting with you, if you don't mind." 

Mind? Hell no, he didn't mind! With some difficulty, he kept his tone casual. "Is this an official 'discussion', Constable?" 

"No, sir. I am not requesting this 'discussion' as a member of the RCMP. I would, however, like to make it clear that while I am volunteering to discuss this matter with you independent of the RCMP, I am still bound by my oath to them. There may be things I cannot discuss. I also must warn you that I have no memory of the incident itself" 

He sounded better than Parker would have expected. His voice was clear and strong, without any slurring or other evidence of his injury. Fraser also sounded completely guileless, and the anchorman shook his head in wonder. The memory thing was something Parker knew and expected, but with the RCMP clause, the canny son of a bitch had just given himself carte blanche to refuse any questions, but had done it while sounding like a choir boy. "Of course. May I bring a camera crew, or would you prefer I came alone?" 

"I would appreciate it if you came alone." 

"Certainly, Constable." Parker's voice was smooth as melted silk and as accommodating as a concierge looking at a platinum card. "What time would be good for you?" 

"I'm afraid that my physician has scheduled a series of tests for this morning, and I may require some time to recover and prepare afterwards. Would two thirty be acceptable?" 

"I'm looking forward to it. Anything else, Constable?" 

"Not particularly. Thank you kindly."

"Thank _you_ , Constable. I will see you at two-thirty. Goodbye." As he settled the receiver back into it's cradle, Parker shook his head in quiet amazement. The man was good. More than that, the man was _very_ good. He'd sounded like the perfect gentleman, the consummate boy scout. With a stranger, that smooth, slightly deep voice would have lulled them into complete trust. 

But then, hadn't he expected that? Hadn't he expected someone who was an expert on the appearance of virtue and innocence? Everything he had found thus far evidenced a truly twisted individual, obsessed with presenting a picture-perfect image while he coldly disregarded lives in the pursuit of heroic fame. He knew Constable Benton Fraser's soul, for unlike everyone else, he'd been able to see through the veneer. 

He still had questions, of course. Where was all that money being siphoned off to? What exactly had happened between he and Victoria Metcalf? Why had nothing been made of his father's apparent corruption in the Gerrard case two years back? Had the younger Fraser been a part of that corruption as well? He had certainly left for the United States very quickly after the trial. 

Parker was a skilled interrogator, and he knew that he could find the answers. Working against Fraser was simply a matter of playing the interview chess game with a master rather than a street-corner dilettante. It was actually more exciting for the difficulty, a worthy match of wits that he was eagerly anticipating. 

Sipping slowly from his coffee mug, Parker closed his eyes, allowing his senses to be filled by the hot, earthy brew. He had been the first to see through Benton Fraser's veneer, but he would not be the last. Today, at two thirty, he would carefully, elegantly strip that veneer away completely. All the world would know the reality behind the mask, and Benton Fraser would be finished. 

Oh, and the rats story would probably make the first cut, but not the news itself. 

***

LATER THAT DAY

1:20 PM

***

"You did _WHAT_?" The words came out half a squeak, half a scream. Overall, the effect was rather similar to a mouse being stepped upon. 

"Francesca, please, calm down..."

Frannie hopped out of her chair, her hands gesturing almost spasmodically as she shouted at Fraser. "No, I am not going to calm down! Those reporters are going to cook you like a hot dog on the fourth of July! They're going to absolutely fry you!"

"I think you mean 'grill'." Fraser's voice seemed almost unnaturally calm in comparison to his companion's. 

"Fry, grill, sauté, toast, what does it matter? You're still cooked!"

"I think you may be overreacting."

__

"Overreacting?" She waved one arm over the Mountie. "Look at yourself, Benton! You're in no shape to hold a press conference!"

"One reporter is hardly a press conference."

"Oh?", she asked sarcastically, "Which vulture did you call in?"

"Mr. Parker of News Ten at Six." From the tone of his voice, the statement was clearly meant to calm her down, but it seemed to prove counterproductive. 

Her dark eyes grew almost impossibly wider. "Are you out of your _mind_? That's the idiot that's been leading the attack! He's crazy! He wants to rip your guts out, step on them a lot, and spread them in a steaming mess from here to Lake Shore Drive!" 

Fraser sighed. "I think you may be overstating the case."

"Like hell!"

"Francesca, please. I've thought about this very carefully. I know that Mr. Parker's opinion of me is...not entirely positive, but he appears to be a very intelligent, logical professional. If he has found something in me that I haven't been able to see, I have to know. I cannot afford _not_ to know, even if it is unpleasant."

"But can't you find out some other way?"

"I need to talk to him. I...I'd like to know how he thinks..." He looked up at her beseechingly, and she almost turned away, quite aware that if Ray could see the look on her face now he would say she was pouting. The worst part about it was that he would be right. 

"He's an ass!" she snapped. 

"Francesca, if you won't assist me, please say so. I need to do this, but if you don't want to help me..." Her fists clenched, her brightly painted fingernails digging deeply into her palms. Why, why, _why_ did God do that? Why did he give big, beautiful blue eyes to guys who would use them like that? Why did he give them to guys who knew just how to make them deep and sad and needy and liquid, like an annoyingly crush-worthy puppy? 

It wasn't fair. It absolutely wasn't fair! She turned away, closing her eyes tightly. "Don't do that."

"What?" Damn! He sounded so innocent, like he didn't know exactly what he was doing. She couldn't tell him no. Not for long, anyway. He had to know that. 

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Francesca Vecchio caved. It was his decision after all, and his neck on the chopping block. If she just happened to be a tad vulnerable to the entreaties of a man she had a crush on for years but had never asked her for anything before...well, that was a complete side issue. "Just...just...nevermind! What do you need?" 

"I asked Constable Turnbull to fetch a few things from my apartment earlier this morning, and I was wondering if you'd help me with them." He nodded his head to indicate the minuscule closet attached to his room. 

Frannie shook her head as she opened the door. She had seen shoeboxes bigger than this thing. How could anyone possibly keep anything in here? Given the dimensions of the closet, it didn't take her long to locate the items in question. Carefully, she took down the three hangers that held a duo of almost identical flannel shirts and a pair of blue jeans. She'd seen him wearing them on several occasions, and she smiled. The jeans looked nothing short of scrumptious, and the shirts gave him kind of a woodsy-sexy lumberjack or cowboy look instead of the military-sexy look of the uniform. "These?" 

He smiled slightly at the sight of the familiar attire, although Frannie was sadly certain that he didn't understand what connotations it had for her. "Yes."

Suddenly, holding the hanger and looking at him in that paper-thin hospital gown, she knew exactly what he was about to ask. "You want me to help you get dressed?" 

Maybe he remembered who he was talking to, or maybe the smile on her face was just an eensy bit suggestive of the rampantly erotic thoughts running through her head. Whatever it was, Fraser suddenly looking away, an embarrassed blush providing the first color she had seen on his face in what seemed like forever. "If it's a problem, I can call Mrs. Callard, but I...uh...." 

She sighed. Really, she should have known. The only reason that he was even considering letting her get her infamous hands anywhere near his bare flesh was as a surrogate for a nurse with a protective streak wider than the Grand Canyon. Frannie wouldn't put it past that walking medical mountain to actually sedate him if she heard what he was about to do. Maybe that wouldn't be an entirely bad thing, but it wouldn't be fair either. Stupid or not, Frannie knew from her own hyper-protective brother that sometimes, you just needed to make your own choices. "You don't want an earful from Attilla the Nurse."

"That's not how I would have phrased it, but...no." A sheepish little-boy smile appeared on his face, and Frannie's carnal appetite faded dramatically. What was wrong with her? Her first chance to literally get her hands on the object of her every desire, and all she could think was that it would be like taking advantage of a priest. 

He did that to her far too often, and it was probably some sign of going totally nuts. One moment, she saw this sweet, innocent-looking guy who made her feel almost dirty for wanting to rend that tunic to shreds with a bottle of chocolate syrup in her hand. The next moment, he had become a Canadian Adonis who made her think thoughts that would shame the steamiest romance novels. Romance novels. She winced. Thankfully, he didn't seem to remember _that_ little incident, but it was another of those times when that innocence had come and slapped her upside the head with a five foot-eleven inch hunk of guilt. She really needed to do something about that conscience of hers. 

Forcing her most unthreatening, maternal smile, she draped the clothes over her arm and stepped close to the bed. "Hey, no problem. Pants too?" 

The blush faded abruptly back into utter pallor. "Perhaps I should call Mrs. Callard."

"I'm not going to try anything, Frase. Your 'virtue' is safe for now." He had no idea how safe, or how much she hated that he really was safe. 

Maybe her utter misery at suddenly being unable to even think lascivious thoughts about him showed on her face, or maybe that infamous Fraser trust had kicked in, but the apprehension faded from his eyes. "Thank you kindly."

Setting the jeans on the end of the bed, she lifted the shirts for his assessment. "Blue one or red one?" 

He shrugged a bit, but only with the one shoulder that hadn't been hurt when he fell. "You may decide." 

Absently pushing back a strand of hair, she lay the shirts on the bed and then stepped back to study them. If she got past who she was going to dress, this was actually a little bit fun. It was like when she was a little girl and had played nurse games, mixed with a little bit of fashion consultant. The red shirt was very nice, and she only had to think about his Mountie uniform to confirm that red and black did much for his coloring, but on the other hand...yes. Decision made. "Blue." She knew better than to say so, but it matched his eyes perfectly. 

As she started to unbutton the shirt to remove it from its hanger, she remembered the red tunic hanging in the closet. "Frase?"

"Yes, Francesca?"

"Why not the uniform? I mean...me personally, I like the jeans, but I know you love that uniform." 

When she looked up, she was surprised to see the sadness in his eyes. "I cannot conduct this interview as a member of the RCMP."

"But...you are still one, right?" He hadn't gotten fired, had he? They couldn't do that just because of the media mess, could they? She felt her heart skip a beat...being a Mountie meant so much to Fraser. If he lost that, she knew it would break his heart. 

"For the time being." Her breath came out in a whoosh before she even realized she had been holding it. 'Time being' didn't sound too secure, but it was better than 'fired.' 

The shirt was free of it's hanger now, and she pulled the covers down to his waist. Now that she had a better look at the hospital gown, she grimaced. It was not only paper-thin, but the design was simply appalling. She could design something more flattering in her sleep. "Ugh. No wonder you want to change. Why do they make people wear these horrible peekaboo dresses anyway?" 

Another half-shrug. "Ease of patient access." His tone was matter-of-fact, and she felt rather proud. He didn't seem to be worried about her ability to access the patient any more. 

Should she? Well, really she shouldn't, but she did any way. Frannie smiled wickedly, peeling back the gown from his good shoulder. Half the side came open. "No kidding." 

A truly terrified light appeared in his eyes. "Francesca..."

Mentally slapping herself, she dropped the gown and tucked it back into place. She decided to put the clothes on _over_ the gown, knowing that they didn't offer anything in the way of underwear beneath it. "No, I said I wasn't going to do anything." Her voice was firm, but then it softened as she began to ease the sleeve up his good arm. "I mean, I remember when I was fourteen and I broke my arm. I had this cast from my fingers up past my elbow, and it just itched like...well anyway, one day I was getting ready for school and I couldn't get my bra on. Ma was downstairs with Pop at the breakfast table, and Maria had been gone for like, a year and a half. I had to call Ray, and that was...I mean, he's my brother, sure, but still... I turned my back and all, so he was just kinda looping it over my front and doing up the back without seeing anything, but I remember that I felt so stupid. So I figure it's kinda like that. Like a nurse."

She had the shirt looped around his back now, and she could see that he was honestly impressed by her self-restraint and sympathy. "That's a very mature attitude, Francesca." 

To her surprise, Frannie felt herself blush. The poor guy had probably been expecting to spend this entire process being fondled mercilessly. Oddly, though, hearing the respect in his voice just now made her heart skip a beat harder than anything else he had ever done. She liked being respected. For the first time, she smiled at him without a trace of flirtation. "Thank you, Benton." 

He couldn't move his other shoulder all that much to help her, but they managed to get it on anyway. The most difficult aspect was his IV. It took him almost five minutes to convince her that it wouldn't kill him to disconnect it for a few moments while she slid the sleeve over his hand. After she got past that, however, she found that she only had to turn a small connector to release the IV tube and reconnect it to the catheter that was taped into his hand. She had already decided that she wasn't about to go pulling needles out of him and then shoving them back in again. 

The jeans were a little harder to get on. Fraser wasn't completely helpless, but the little bit that he could manage to move and lift his legs didn't help her all that much. She'd never realized how much the limbs of a grown man weighed when he wasn't able to handle them by himself. Once they were most of the way up his thighs, she shimmied them carefully under his hips and backside, tucking the gown in as she went. Frannie couldn't help but notice that the normal snug fit of the jeans was a good bit looser, and that she could quite easily slip her hand between the gown and the waistband to tuck things in. She buttoned them, but let Fraser zip them himself. 

Once everything was in place, she stood back to admire her handiwork. "You look pretty good, Frase. I mean, you're still awful pale and everything, but it looks more like you're trying to join the human race, if you know what I mean." She tilted her head appraisingly. "The shirt's kinda socks on a rooster, though. Maybe I can pin it up the back or something. We'll put a blanket over your lap to make the jeans look better." 

A light sheen of sweat showed on his forehead, and he was breathing kinda hard, but he was smiling, and his "Thank you kindly," held a touch extra gratitude. Frannie understood completely. After all, for the first time since the accident, he was back in normal human being clothes, and that had to make you feel better. She knew how much she hated it when _she_ was sick, and how symbolic it felt to shed that bathrobe for a nice pair of leather pants, even if she still felt like crap. 

"Hey, no problem." Frannie gather up the red shirt, crossing the room to hang it back up in the closet. "Anything else I can do?" 

"Would you happen to have a comb?"

She grinned. "Regular comb, teasing comb, paddle brush, round brush, or natural bristle brush?" 

His eyes widened a bit at the selection, and he paused a moment before answering. "A regular comb would be fine." 

Opening the flap of her sizable purse, she dug around in the contents for a while before finding it. "Here you go."

It took him several minutes to comb the unruly curls into submission. Frannie couldn't help but notice that he had to rest a little between every couple of strokes, but she let him do it himself. A guy should at least be allowed to comb his own hair. Finally, he completed the obviously-familiar ritual and looked to her. "How does it look? Is my part even?"

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn't be allowed to comb his own hair. The part was even - perfectly even, in fact - but he had combed it the same way he always did. The curls were forced flat, the hair tamed into his usual military style. Against the sleek, flat darkness of his hair, the ICP bolt stuck out a mile. She couldn't help but smirk a little. "Sure, if you want to look like you need basting every twenty minutes." 

He blinked, not understanding. "Excuse me?" 

"You've flattened your hair down so that turkey timer is sticking out like a flagpole. Here..." She took the comb from him and began lifting the curls a little. Not enough to make it look fluffy, but enough to give it a little body. 

"What are you...?"

"Don't worry." She continued to work, carefully avoiding touching the bolt itself. She didn't know exactly how it was connected, but Frannie did know enough not to mess with something hard-wired to a guy's brain. Working gently but quickly, she combed the dark curls to hide the most garish parts of the bolt. "You know, you've got great hair. And not just because it's all there, either. I mean, you really do. It's nice and thick, and it could be really cute if you just let it curl a little like this instead of always wearing it so short." 

"The RCMP regulations are very strict regarding personal grooming." He sounded like a machine reading it back, and she had no doubt that he could precisely quote every rule of grooming on the RCMP book.

She shrugged. "Too bad." Personally, she felt that military and kinda-military organizations like that shouldn't be so strict about hair and things. After all, they already had to wear identical uniforms. Why not let each officer wear their hair the way it looked the best? Concluding her work with the comb, she retrieved a small can of hairspray from her purse. "Hold your breath and close your eyes. " Cupping a hand over the ICP bolt to protect it from the spray, she liberally fixed his hair so that it wouldn't alter her handiwork. "There."

Frannie offered him a mirror, also from the bottomless purse, and she saw the apprehension in his eyes fade. "Excellent work, Francesca." It didn't look all that different, and she had known him well enough to keep it neat looking rather than tousled. She couldn't completely hide the bolt, but she had managed to use the natural curl and body of his hair to make it a little less obvious. 

"Thanks. I wish I could do something else. Maybe a little blush, but you're so pale it'd look like a clown or something. I guess this is it."

"You've done more than enough." His voice wasn't the least bit sarcastic, but grateful and respectful again. Frannie wondered if maybe she shouldn't try to get him to respect her a little more often. At least he wasn't trying to run away. 

He reached for the nurse's call button, and she frowned. "I thought you weren't going to call Attilla."

"I'm going to need some assistance transferring to a wheelchair for the interview, and my IV is going to have to be moved to a portable unit." 

Frannie's eyes widened. "You're going to do this from a wheelchair?"

"I felt it would be more appropriate." 

"But...can you do that?"

Fraser took a deep breath, obviously a little worried about it himself. "It will be...taxing. But yes, I believe I am up to it." 

"If you say so..." her voice trailed off as the door opened. Callard was standing there, and from the look on her face, she was ready to commit homicide against whoever was responsible for dressing her patient. Frannie gulped. "Oh dear." 

Looking up, Fraser also saw the displeased woman, and if it had been possible, his face would have paled further. "Oh dear." 

***

30 MINUTES LATER

2:30 PM

DAY 18

***

So this was Constable Benton Fraser. 

The simple rituals of greetings past, Francis Parker took the opportunity to study his opponent. He more or less ignored the young woman glaring at him from behind Fraser's wheelchair. She was instantly recognized as Francesca Vecchio, the sister of Fraser's partner. He offered her a single, maddening smile in reply to the violence of her stare, then turned his attention completely to the man who really mattered. 

He had seen the face before, of course. He had seen it a thousand times, in scene photos, reports, and the official RCMP file photo that, like all official photos, was strategically designed to look as unflattering as humanly possible. This was the first time, however, that he had gotten to see him face to face. 

Fraser wasn't dressed in his hospital gown, but rather a blue plaid flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. A beige hospital blanket had been draped over his lap. His hair was neatly combed, yet an attempt had been made to use it's thickness and curl to hide the gleaming ICP bolt that protruded from his scalp. He was smiling slightly in social welcome, and he held out his left hand in greeting. Parker shook it, noting that he kept his right hand close to his body. He knew from Miss Sun's reports that the shoulder on that side had been injured, and the bulge under the shirt was clearly a stabilizing bandage, yet there was no sling. 

Parker was a bit curious at the attempts that had been made to hide his condition. Most would have deliberately allowed themselves to appear as pitiful as possible, and would not have shrunk from a camera crew to tape the big bad reporter beating up on the poor, injured Mountie. Instead, Fraser seemed to have gone to great lengths to seem as healthy as possible. He was even greeting Parker in a wheelchair rather than the bed, though it was clear that he was barely able to remain upright in it. As it was, his posture was rather slumped, his weight completely supported by the chair itself rather than any ability to hold himself in a sitting position. It spoke of a deep sense of personal dignity, and perhaps a slight fear at being seen as vulnerable. 

Even still, the effects of his injury were obvious, and in more than the telltale gleam of the ICP bolt. His face, though fair-skinned in the photographs Parker had seen, was now utterly devoid of color, his lips so pale they seemed to vanish. His features were rather gaunt, and the journalist guessed that he had lost perhaps twenty pounds, a loss also visible in the loosened fit of his clothing. 

Contrasted in that pale, drawn face, his eyes were almost shocking. Dark, thick lashes rimmed eyes that were bright blue in color, deeply intelligent in nature. Those eyes reminded Parker that he was not dealing with an invalid here, but with a dangerous man. Fraser himself did not appear to be naïve about Parker's reasons for being there, but nor did he appear to hold a grudge. That neutrality would make the game more interesting. 

He knew what he expected from a con man. In his career, he had interviewed dozens, and the patterns were always the same. They would be the long lost friend you never knew you had. They would pull in your sympathy, making you feel guilty for ever doubting such a nice guy. They would weave elaborate stories to explain every possible detail and doubt, turning a simple inquiry into an hour-long explanation. Most of all, they would charm. 

Constable Fraser clearly possessed all the raw ingredients for a mind-boggling charm. He was young and handsome, he was in a trusted occupation, and most of all, he had those eyes. Those deep, disarmingly trusting eyes that seemed to look not only at you, but in you. Those were the kind of eyes he had seen time and again in con men. 

Still, looking at Fraser, Parker knew that he wouldn't be likely to toe the con man's line too precisely. After all, he worked in an organization trained to recognize that type. He had fooled everyone who knew him with the exception of Parker himself. His method had to be smoother, more subtle, achieving the same results while exhibiting such slight-of-hand as not to be noticed for what it was. 

His own dark eyes still locked with the Mountie's, he felt a surge of excitement at the challenge this interview would pose. The chess board was set up in front of them, two worthy opponents on either side. Opening move was his. 

"Before we get started, there are a few formalities that I need to cover, Constable." He brought out the tape recorder from his pocket, setting it on his lap in clear view as he pressed the 'record' button. "May I have your permission to tape our discussion?" 

Fraser nodded amiably, as if he had nothing in the world he would care to hide. "Certainly."

"Thank you. This is Francis Parker speaking with Constable Benton Fraser at two thirty-three PM, Central Standard Time, May tenth, nineteen ninety-six." He paused, then looked Fraser directly in the eyes. "Constable, this interview is upon your request, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are doing this of your own free will, and you consider yourself physically and mentally fit to give responsible answers to questions I might pose." The questions were indeed formalities, little legal assurances that would prevent Fraser from saying he was coerced or out of his mind if the results of this interview proved damaging. Parker didn't expect that Fraser would attempt such juvenile tricks anyway, and there was a decidedly off-handed tone to the initial exchange, the Mountie himself recognizing that they were little more than interview Miranda rights. 

"Yes." 

"And you have stated that you will answer any questions that do not directly contradict your oaths and duties as a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman." By clarifying Fraser's earlier caveat, he could now challenge any question Fraser refused to answer. If it did not indeed prove to have direct security concerns, the Mountie would be in deep trouble. 

"Yes."

"Very good. Now that we have that out of the way, I must admit that I have been greatly looking forward to this discussion, Constable. You're a man of numerous puzzles." 

"In what way?" The return question wasn't as guarded as he would have expected from a normal con man, but held the ease and openness he had expected from a master. 

He carefully kept his manner open, approachable. Just a few easy questions between buddies, nothing overly intrusive or difficult. Even though he knew that it wouldn't drop the guard of a professional like Fraser, it would at least keep him from reinforcing it. "Well, to start with, what is a Mountie doing in Chicago?"

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture have stayed, attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate." The answer held the rote delivery he expected for a question he knew Fraser must have been asked dozens of times.

"And you live at 221 West Racine?"

"Yes."

Parker smiled slightly, still keeping the interview casual. So far he was simply interviewing him in regards to curiosities. The big guns could wait for the more serious charges. "An unusual address, and another puzzle, Constable. You make fifty thousand Canadian dollars annually. That works out to just over thirty thousand dollars American. That's not a luxurious income, but it should be more than enough to allow you to live comfortably in a nice apartment. Yet you're living a lifestyle barely above abject poverty in a poor and dangerous neighborhood. Why is this?"

"I was raised in a rather simplistic manner, Mr. Parker. I prefer a more...rustic lifestyle, and my apartment more than fulfills all my necessities. Indeed, it would be considered in many ways excessive where I grew up. The indoor plumbing and the gas stove, for example." 

"I see. What about the neighborhood?"

"It's centrally located. I can walk to the precinct or to the Consulate within ten minutes." 

An interesting explanation, though a bit curious in and of itself. The man was willing to risk his life for a convenient walk? "Aren't you concerned about living in an area with a high crime rate?"

Fraser paused a moment, considering his answer. "I have concerns, yes, but that is my neighborhood. If all the good people flee areas where wrongdoing exists, Mr. Parker, there is nothing to stop that wrong from completely dominating. There is now a West Racine neighborhood watch and civic committee, and the crime rate has dropped eight percent in the past four months." He sounded a bit proud of the latter, as though he were personally responsible. 

The phrasing of one part of that answer intrigued him, and he decided to push it a little. "'All the good people.' You consider yourself a good person?"

"I consider myself a law-abiding citizen."

A fascinating insight on the Constable's definition of virtue. If he believed that all that was required to be a 'good person' was adherence to law, it would be a virtual Godsend to Parker's case. "Is that your definition of a good person?"

"It is one definition." 

Not the best answer he could have given, but not the worst either. "I see. This lifestyle you've chosen leaves you with a significant amount of surplus income, Constable. What do you do with all of it?"

"Diefenbaker and I maintain savings accounts at the Bank of Canada, I donate regularly to charity, and I have a small investment portfolio. Currently, I have more than I need, but I am hoping some day to be able to purchase a house and support a wife and family." There was a slightly wistful tone to that wish, a tinge of longing for home and hearth and a brood of bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked children. It was a very charming picture, and a less savvy reporter might have smiled and been lulled by those domestic ideals. 

"And your father, did he leave you any money when he died? You were his sole heir." 

"He left me several thousand dollars and his cabin, yes. He also did not have any great expenses in his life." 

"And that money?"

"Remains in his account, although it has been transferred to my name. I can provide the account numbers, if you would like." 

"Thank you." Parker nodded. He understood that not volunteering the numbers at this moment was a security matter, and he didn't push it. He could get them later on a piece of paper, rather than having them recited on the audio tape that would be distributed for editing around the station. "Your father's murder trial is a matter of public record. Gerrard claims that he and your father were both receiving bribes to remain silent concerning the environmental impact of the dam. He produced bank documents showing several hundred thousand dollars in your father's accounts. Is that money also part of your home fund?"

There was a slight edge to Fraser's voice this time, a hardening almost. "No, sir. That money never belonged to my father, as I do not believe he was ever aware of it's existence. Therefore, it never belonged to me. I signed it over to the Canadian government. I do not truthfully know what they have done with it." He spoke as if the money was physically dirty, and he had been all too happy to be rid of it.

"And how many people know about this transfer?" Giving up a lot of money could earn him some nice brownie points among his superior officers. 

"Myself, RCMP legal consultant James Vickers, and Commissioner Dell." 

Parker frowned slightly. "You told no one else about this?" 

"I saw no need to."

"It's a lot of money to give up so easily."

"As I said, sir, I do not feel that it was ever mine to give up." 

"Then you do not believe that your father was guilty of accepting the bribes." It would seem an unnecessary clarification on the tape, but Parker was aware that he still needed an absolute statement. 

"No, sir. I cannot say that I was particularly close to my father, but I do know that he was not the kind of man who would accept money to forsake his duty. His duty mattered more to him than anything." The bitterness that was faintly shadowed around those last words surprised Parker, and he made a mental note to go back to the subject of Fraser's father once all his other topics had been covered. 

"Going back to your statement earlier. You came back to Chicago 'for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture.' This is a large urban metropolis, Constable. Your largest previous posting was the town of Moose Jaw, and both your statements about choice of lifestyle and your continuous history of rural postings suggest that you are not comfortable in a city. Would you care to elaborate why you chose to return to Chicago?"

"The trial of Sergeant Gerrard caused...tensions." Parker noted the diplomatic care with which the last word was chosen.

"Because your father was accused of corruption."

"Partly. Also because I arrested a fellow RCMP officer. There are officers who believe that was an embarrassment to the force."

"It was your duty to arrest him, though, was it not?"

"Yes sir."

"Then why would you be punished for carrying out justice?"

"Justice is not always particularly popular." 

He nodded, solemnly and with feigned sympathy. "Tell me, Constable, do you feel that Gerrard's sentence was just?"

"He received life in prison."

"The man had your father murdered. Doesn't that make you angry?" If he could get Fraser to admit to what his record made so clear - that he carried epic vendettas matched only by his father - it would make Parker's job a lot easier. 

"Yes. But that doesn't bring my father back." 

It seemed he would have to be a little more explicit. "You have a reputation for being a 'persistent' investigator, Constable. You tracked your father's killers to Chicago, and you have been cited numerous times for tracking suspects in extreme conditions over long distances. You tracked one poacher for nearly a month across several thousand kilometers of wilderness. Some would call this obsession."

"I consider it my duty." 

A fascinating choice of words. Was Fraser claiming duty as a sort of convenient carte blanche? "You will do anything to bring in a criminal?"

"Anything within the bounds of law and morality, sir."

"I see. What about your own physical danger?" They were edging a little closer to the questions swirling around the shooting itself now. 

"I try to avoid it when possible, but I also try not to allow it to interfere with my duties."

"What about the physical danger of others?"

"That depends on the circumstances, sir. There are times when a degree of risk is necessary."

Parker almost smiled in triumph. The hostage's parents would certainly be intrigued to know that Fraser found physical risk to others 'necessary'. He decided to begin focusing in on individual instances, proving the pattern of behavior. "Like with Harold Geiger."

"I don't understand."

Like hell he didn't understand, but Parker played along anyway, 'clarifying' for him. "You were present for the arrest of Harold Geiger approximately thirteen months ago. He had escaped prison, committed a series of homicides, and fled to Chicago. Accompanied by Sergeant Duncan Frobisher, who was then AWOL from the RCMP, you and Detective Raymond Vecchio of the Chicago PD managed to arrest him."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you say that this placed Sergeant Frobisher and Detective Vecchio at risk?"

"It was of their own free will, sir." It was almost frightening the way that his voice was completely devoid of remorse. 

"You had recently been rather severely wounded, Constable. A stab wound to the right leg, I believe. Quite deep." 

"Yes. I was treated at this hospital."

"And left AMA. Did you stop and think that perhaps you should have called for backup? Even the SWAT team? You were wounded, unarmed, and lacked jurisdiction. Sergeant Frobisher was AWOL, and is a man of significant years. Detective Vecchio was the only member of your team who was armed and able bodied, yet you were facing not only a man who had killed multiple police officers and civilians, but several accomplices. This seems to be a situation that demands assistance."

"Sergeant Frobisher was the arresting officer for Geiger's previous apprehension. It was his belief that additional officers would be counterproductive." 

__

God forbid SuperMountie and his sidekick call in the cavalry. "I see. You seem to have a history of operations with Detective Vecchio that are noticeably free from backup in situations that would seem to demand it. The Markles auto theft ring and the illegal horse meat case are two that come to mind."

"Situations often occur in the course of police work that require immediate action, and it is not always possible to obtain support." 

"And the Charlie Wong case? You and Vecchio took on the Chinese mob individually, even though the FBI was supposed to be in control of that case." 

"A child's life was in immediate danger. We assisted the FBI to the degree that we could, but in the final events of the case, we were required to move quickly in order to safeguard the life of both the child and the father." 

"So you moved independently. That's a risky judgment call, Constable."

"I am a trained police officer, sir. So is Detective Vecchio. We are trained to make such judgment calls."

Though the tone was neutral, Parker could see the arrogance behind the words. That school hallway was not the first time Fraser had played God, and he seemed to consider himself entitled to do so. "Do you believe that they are usually wise ones?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about your decision to keep a wild animal within this city?" 

Fraser paused a moment, his head cocking slightly to one side. "You are referring to Diefenbaker, my wolf."

"Yes. Records show that he was suspected in the disappearance of several neighborhood pets, as well as being convicted of biting both an animal control officer and yourself. The court transcript also suggests that this was neither his first attack on humans, nor his first attack on fellow animals. He was ordered destroyed at one point, Constable. How can you justify not only keeping him, but keeping him in the presence of children?" 

"Diefenbaker is with me of his own free will"

"You believe a wolf has free will." He allowed some of his skepticism to creep into his tone there.

"All living creatures have free will, sir. But Diefenbaker has chosen to be with me here in Chicago. I am not forcing an urban lifestyle onto a wild animal, and indeed he seems to have acclimated to the point of softening his natural instincts considerably. As for being vicious, sir, the only times he has ever attacked has been either in his own defense, the defense of his mate, or my defense."

"Did he never learn to hunt?"

"Yes, he hunted the majority of his own food in the Territories. I do not consider it an act of violence, Mr. Parker. It's an act of nature."

"Is it not possible then that he committed these 'acts of nature' against some of the smaller pets in your neighborhood?"

"Possibly, but highly unlikely. The wolf's natural diet consists of large, hoofed mammals which they hunt in packs, or of small animals such as mice or voles when they are hunting solo. As neither gerbils, hamsters, nor caribou were on the list of missing pets, I feel that it is safe to attribute all of the disappearances to Animal Control Officer Arnold Benedict. If you check the full record, you will find that he was selling numerous pets to a laboratory."

Parker nodded, choosing not to press that point further. "You say he has bitten only in defense. How do you explain his biting you then, Constable? Were you attacking him?"

"That incident was entirely my fault."

One thick, dark eyebrow raised. "You're saying then that you _were_ attacking him?"

"No. I was ignoring him. Diefenbaker was attempting to warn me of an imminent danger. I am usually very attuned to his signals, but I was not paying particularly close attention. It was an act of desperation, not violence, as he did not close his mouth fully. Had he been attacking me, he would have gone for my throat and likely severed the jugular vein. As it was, he barely broke the skin of my wrist."

"So you consider this animal safe." 

"Very."

Parker mentally surveyed the chess board between them. Fraser was a far more skillful player than he had thought. He had made none of the expected moves, played none of the typical gambits. Yet that last statement had left his king wide open, and Parker had the checkmate sequence all prepared. "And you have said before that you trust your own judgment fairly well. You have, as you pointed out, been trained to make difficult decisions in critical situations."

A frown lightly pinched the skin between Fraser's eyes, and he spoke carefully, choosing each word. He was aware that Parker was trying to catch him in that question, and he was careful not to be snared by an unthinking choice of words. "I do not mean to imply that I am infallible, simply that I am not unqualified."

As though he had never even considered that question to be anything less than completely straightforward, Parker allowed a small, conceding smile. "Of course." The smile hardened as he sprang the real trap that had been lurking behind the one he knew full well Fraser would evade. "And were you fallible a few months ago in the case of Victoria Metcalf?" 

A thick silence filled the room. Fraser's eyes widened slightly, then for the first time during the interview, he dropped eye contact, his gaze falling towards the floor. He was silent a long moment, then quietly asked, "Francesca, if you would please leave the room." His voice was a bit rough, as though something were caught in his throat.

Every alarm bell in the young woman's body suddenly went off. She stiffened, drawing her petite form up to be as tall and resolute as possible. If looks could kill, several generations of Parker's ancestry would have mysteriously gone up in smoke. "You have _got_ to be kidding!! Like I'm going to leave you alone with"

Though still quiet, Fraser's voice was firm, and there was a slight edge of pleading to it now. "Francesca, _please_ leave the room. Please."

Francesca's dark eyes narrowed, her fiery gaze never leaving Parker. "You've got five minutes," she muttered threateningly, "and I'm right back in here."

"Understood." Slowly, warily, Francesca stepped out of the room, her eyes remaining on Parker until the very last second when the door closed behind her. From the look on her face, she wouldn't have put it past the anchorman to actually attempt homicide while she was away. 

He turned his attention back to the Mountie. Fraser's eyes were still looking down and away, his breathing having taken on an odd rhythm. Each breath was pulled in deeply and quickly, then held for a split second before being released. It was a pattern Parker recognized as someone trying to contain some strong emotion. 

Parker almost smiled. Here it was. He had hit upon Fraser's Achilles heel, and he knew it. This was one area in which the Mountie had acted so flagrantly that he couldn't cover everything up with charm or with false innocence. Instead, he would resort to tears. It was something he had seen many times with con men. Once you get close to a tender spot, they would break down in heartfelt sobs and try to change your mind from suspicion to sympathy. 

Yet oddly, those deep, catching breaths did not crescendo into sobs as he had expected. Rather they faded out slowly to normal again. When Fraser met his eyes again, there were no tears on his cheeks. His eyes were a bit bright, but rather than using those large baby blues as deep, sad sympathy pleas, a shield seemed to have been clamped over them. They were like the eyes of a doll, dead and a bit distant. "I was...very fallible." The words were spoken with the same deadness visible in his eyes.

Curious. It was very, very rare for a con man to admit something so quickly. He would have to press on, press harder until he found something that would crack Fraser's calm. Every instinct in his body told him that this was the other man's defining case, and that this was where he would find his revelation. "Would you consider Victoria Metcalf an error in judgment, Constable?"

"Yes."

Push the fact that he made mistakes, get him to say on tape that he had screwed up big time. Then turn it, turn the conversation to hit him broadside and get him to admit to something far darker. Get him to admit to the corruption that would bring him down. "A fairly significant error."

"Yes. I was wrong."

He was wrong? What did he mean he was wrong? Parker had been expecting either an evasion or simply another yes. In all his years of reporting, he had never yet met a con man who simply and easily admitted he was wrong. Did that mean that Fraser had brought the con game to a whole new level, knowing and avoiding the usual gambits? Or did that mean that Parker himself had been....no. He just had to push harder. "What do you think could have possibly caused such a well-trained and qualified officer to make this error?" 

The eyes dropped again, the voice fading to a bare, tremulous whisper. "I...loved her."

There. That was more like it. Chalk it all up to love, make the big sympathy plea there. 'Crime of passion.' He had been a man in love. Surely neither Parker nor anyone else could hold a heart to the bounds of law? It was something he had heard dozens of times from dozens of criminals. 

Con men stole money for the woman they loved, or because they 'loved' the person they stole from and didn't think they knew what to do with it. Abusive husbands 'loved' their wife so much that they were driven to a rage where they just had to beat her bloody. Mob members 'loved' their family so much that they had to join them in crime. Even rapists often claimed a desperate, unrequited 'love' for their victims. Love was the universal excuse for criminals, and now Benton Fraser thought he could use it himself. 

Well, they would see how love met logic. "When you were taken to the hospital after being shot by Detective Vecchio, a gun was found on your person. That weapon was positively identified as the one that Miss Metcalf used to fire several shots inside the train depot. Witnesses claim that when you and Miss Metcalf exited onto the platform, she was fleeing and you were a considerable distance behind her in pursuit. For you to have had the gun at the time of the shooting, you would have had to either have caught her once, which begs the question of why you let her go; or she dropped it, which begs the question of why you did not attempt to use it to apprehend her. The woman was a wanted felon."

The eyes remained downward, the voice quiet. "I caught her. She gave me the gun, and she asked me to let her go. She begged me to let her go." The words were spoken like a robot, as though some deep emotion had been clamped down so tightly that he had no choice but to deaden everything. Had he not known better, that would have been far more moving than actual tears. But he did know better, didn't he? Hadn't Fraser just figured out all the normal ways to play the game and how to better them? Of course he had. 

Press harder. He just had to press harder. "And you did."

"Yes."

Press harder still and raise the stakes a bit. "But when Detective Vecchio, Detective Huey, and Lieutenant Welsh arrived on the platform, you were in pursuit of the train on foot. Did you change your mind and decide to arrest her any way?"

"No." 

Parker's voice raised slightly, battering the questions against that damnable shield Fraser had put up. He had to break through. Any minute, this had to work, had to expose him. "Then what were you doing, Constable? Why were you running down that platform towards a wanted felon with her gun in your pocket?"

"I was leaving with her." 

He reeled. This wasn't fitting. It wasn't fitting at all. Even if Fraser was unorthodox in his approach, even if he had found a whole new angle on the game, this didn't fit. The man had just admitted to a crime on a taped interview, and admitted without the slightest hesitation. Something wasn't right here. Something was very, very wrong, and it shook him deeply not to know what that something was. 

"Does Detective Vecchio know of your intent?" Unlike the carefully aimed volleys of his other questions, this one was a shot in the dark, the only thing he could think of to maintain the momentum of the interview. 

"Yes."

"Then why did he make several official statements saying that you were pursuing with intent to capture?"

There was a long silence. Fraser's white fingers tightened on the arms of his chair until the knuckles appeared ready to burst through the skin of his hands. Finally, he brought his head up again, but slowly, as though he were lifting a weight of unspeakable heaviness. His eyes remained closed for a moment, moisture glistening on the lashes. "I don't know."

Then those eyes opened to meet Parker's, and it was as though that same unspeakably heavy weight had smashed into the journalist. What he could see there was grief...grief and guilt. Ineluctable guilt that could eat and destroy a soul, that could be carried a lifetime and beyond. 

Even when one stared into the eyes of the most skilled Oscar-winning actor or actress, one eventually hit a shield. It was the barrier behind which the self was kept. There was no barrier in these eyes. Instead, it was like staring off a ship into the depths of the ocean. All you could see was the pain, the guilt, the grief and the heartbreak, plunging deeper and deeper until they disappeared into a despairing blackness. But there was no barrier. 

__

No barrier. 

There was only a simple, horrible truth. This woman, this Victoria Metcalf, had broken his heart. Not merely broken it, but shattered it, delivering a near-mortal wound to his capacity to trust and love. Whatever he had done, he had done out of deep, honest love, and he was filled with guilt over those actions now. There was no attempt to escape the responsibility, rather, he could honestly not understand why he was not behind bars now. He almost seemed to wish that Vecchio had in fact told the truth, had in fact destroyed him, because that was what he felt he deserved. 

What he deserved. Parker's logic, stretched thinner and thinner over the course of the interview, finally snapped. What remained was almost impossible for him to comprehend. Checkmate had been finally declared, but it was his king that had been cornered. 

Fraser had nothing to hide. He was exactly what everyone had said he was, a good man who was a bit out of place, a bit of a throwback to a bygone age. Where had he missed? How could he...? How did he...? Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense any more. 

He looked again, and this time, Parker couldn't find the wily, heartless con artist he had seen only minutes ago. In his place was a young man who looked on the very edge of physical and emotional collapse. Parker had systematically re-opened the wounds Victoria had left, then rubbed salt in them. Moreover, the interview itself had clearly taken an extreme toll on Fraser. He was swaying slightly in his chair, a film of sweat over his features. The man was on the razor-edge of complete exhaustion, yet he and his vaunted powers of observation had missed that only seconds ago. 

Mind reeling, Parker pasted a paper smile on his face and stood. "Thank you, Constable. That...will be all." 

Fraser thanked him and said good-bye, but he didn't acknowledge. He was running on auto pilot, unable to divert the attention to such little things as replies. He turned off the tape recorder and fled.

***

 It was a good thing that the hospital corridors were not particularly crowded. 

If they had been, Ray would have left a trail of patients, nurses, and medical cars all the way to Benny's room. He wasn't looking where he was going. Indeed, he was barely making some of the corners in his haste. 

He had to get there in time. He had to stop Benny from making such a monumentally stupid move, and if he couldn't get there in time to prevent that, he had to get there in time to pound that goddamned reporter into a bloody pulp. Ray mentally tried to calculate the time that had passed since the phone call from Callard that had warned him of the imminent danger his friend was in. 

Five minutes sewing things up at the Public Records Office with Thatcher. Two minutes to get down to the Riv. Ten minutes mentally screaming curses at the road crew that decided it would be a very good time to hold up traffic. Twenty minutes burning rubber over to Cook County. Three or four minutes getting to Benny's room. Thirty-five or thirty-six minutes put together. Callard had said that Parker would be there in ten minutes for a thirty minute interview.

Ray grinned as he rounded the corner into Benny's hall, barely swerving to avoid some guy coming in the opposite direction. _Thirty minute interview. They're about twenty minutes into it now._ He stopped in front of the door to L-13, shrugging his shoulders quickly to pull his jacket into place. It was an almost unconscious gesture that he had seen a thousand times from the wiseguys in his neighborhood just prior to giving someone a brass lesson. Appropriate, since he was about to go in there and hold a very similar 'conversation' with Mr. Parker. 

Though he didn't kick in the door, his entrance still held a significant quantity of drama. The doorknob crashed into the wall behind it as he threw the door open, revealing him standing in the doorway, all but literally breathing fire. His green eyes swept the room, searching for the soon to be deceased reporter. 

Parker was nowhere in sight. Instead, he saw only Benny and Frannie. The Mountie was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in one of his favored plaid flannel shirts and a pair of jeans, a blanket draped over his lap. Normally, Ray would have been glad to see this apparent improvement, but it was clear that the clothing and the chair were only an illusion. Benny looked barely conscious, at the stage of glassy-eyed exhaustion where you're almost too tired to even hurt any more, though the way he was holding his injured arm plainly spelled out that he did hurt, and considerably so. As the door crashed back, he managed to raise his head, the movement coming as though his skull had been filled with concrete. "Ray..."

"Ray!" Frannie's voice held none of the weakness of Benny's, but it did contain another tone that Ray had known since they were little kids. The hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar tone. She had a white-knuckled grip on the handles of the wheelchair, her dark eyes wide as she looked at him. 

"Where the hell is he?" Ray stormed into the room, looking around almost as if he expected to find Parker hiding under the bed. He knew Callard wouldn't lie, and from the way Fraser looked, it was clear she hadn't. He'd gotten all dressed up for something, and that something, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was his own slaughter. 

"He's gone." Frannie pulled Benny's wheelchair back a little bit, as though protecting the Mountie. Protecting him. Ha! She was going to 'protect him' from his best friend, but she had let those goddamned media vultures pick him apart. That made a lot of sense. 

Finally realizing that Parker was indeed gone, Ray let himself sink into the chair that now resided near the window. Dropping his head into his hands, he shook it slowly back and forth incredulously. "What were you thinking?" The question was asked quietly, but it found a new target for his anger and fear. His head came up, his eyes blazing. "What the hell were you two _thinking_?" 

"I...I'm sorry, Ray." Benny's blue eyes were wide, like a little kid who's just now realizing that maybe he did a bad thing. Beneath the genuine apology, however, there was a bone-deep weariness that sapped Ray's ability to be angry at his friend. 

"Yeah, Benny," his voice was strangely soft, "you're sorry. Hell, I'll even believe you didn't know what you were doing." He stood, facing his sister as his voice rose to a near-shout. "But _you!!_ Goddamn it, Frannie, I told you! How many times did I fucking tell you to keep him away from the fucking media?!!"

"I'm sorry." Benny's second faint apology did nothing to quell the momentum gathering between the two siblings.

Frannie stepped around Benny's wheelchair to face her brother, standing so close to him that their toes nearly touched. Her own temper had flared, her small body held tall and tight, her fists shaking by her sides. "What?! You don't think I tried to talk him out of it?!! You don't think I _told_ him it was a stupid idea?!! Huh, Ray? You think I just said 'oh, sure, Benton, that sounds like fun'! I didn't, Ray! I did my goddamned best to talk him out of it, but in case you haven't noticed, he's a man!!" She stabbed a finger in the Mountie's direction, never breaking eye contact with Ray. "He's a fully grown man, and he can make his own fucking decisions!!" 

"Well remind me never to call you the next time I'm thinking about suicide! For Christ's sake, Frannie, he's a fully grown man with a goddamn hole in his head!!"

"So what did you want me to do?! Strap him down? Tell him he couldn't make decisions without running them through the High And Holy Committee Of Ray? He was trying to save his own ass for once!" 

"Funny, looked to me like he was trying to get it shot off!" Behind the shouted argument, Ray could hear Benny continuing to apologize. The man sounded like a broken record, and it only fed the cop's anger. Damn it, the Mountie could be like a child sometimes. Why didn't his sister see that?

Frannie's manicured hands came up, shoving her brother in the middle of the chest. He stumbled back, and she stalked forward. "And what if he was! Huh? Huh? It's his ass, Ray! It's his goddamned, beautiful ass, and he doesn't have to get your permission to get it shot off!" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray could see Benny slowly moving his own wheelchair towards the bed, away from the two combatants. Good. It was probably best that he stay out of their way for now. Turning his attention fully back to the problem at hand, he grabbed Frannie by the shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "I thought you cared about him! I thought you really, honestly cared about him!!"

"I do!"

"Not if you'd let him do that! Not if you'd let him screw himself and not do anything to stop it! Goddamn it, Frannie, you could have called me! You could have called the Dragon Lady! You could have called _someone_ to try and talk him out of it!! The man just killed any chance in hell he had of surviving this thing. How fucking stupid can you be?!!" His voice broke on the last question, and he gave her a hard shake before releasing her. Didn't she understand? Benny'd just undone everything he had tried to do, and he was scared. Why was he the only one with the sense to be scared as hell? His voice was shaking badly now. "How stupid, Frannie? _How stupid_?"

She never had a chance to answer. 

Like a hose turned on brawling dogs, a faint "Oh dear," and the sound of a crash cut the argument short. Both heads whipped around, and two pairs of eyes widened at what they saw. 

Benny had managed to pull his chair up right beside the bed, and had apparently tried to transfer himself from one to the other. He had already been exhausted when Ray had seen him before, and it looked as though wheeling himself across the room had taken the very last bit of energy he had. When he had tried to lift himself from the bed to the chair, he was drawing on reserves his body didn't have. He'd fallen, and was now halfway between the bed and chair, only the locks on the wheels preventing the chair from rolling back and dropping him on the floor. It looked like a painful position to be wedged in, but he had no remaining strength to lift himself out.

Completely abandoning the argument, Ray ran to his friend's side. He flipped the locks on the chair, moving quickly to get between Benny and the floor as the chair rolled and the Mountie slid down. Settling Benny on his lap as gently as possible, he looked up at Frannie. "Go get the nurse!" 

Dark ringlets were plastered down on a pale forehead by the sheen of sweat that covered Benny's face. His chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, and Ray could almost feel the other man's heart hammering beneath the flannel. The blue eyes looked oddly unfocused, and Ray felt his mouth go dry. "Benny, c'mon...are you okay?" 

"S...sorry...." 

"Dammit, Fraser, I don't want to hear that again! Were you trying to kill yourself?"

Benny managed a slight shake of the head, but he was drifting away, falling into an exhausted sleep right in Ray's arms. "Didn't...want...to bother...you...angry...." His words trailed off just as Callard came into the room. 

The big nurse's eyes widened as she saw the limp figure on Ray's lap. "What the hell happened?" 

"He tried to get himself in bed. Fell." Ray suddenly felt incredibly tired himself. Exactly how many truly rotten days could a guy take one after the other? He had to be going for some kind of a record. 

Moving like a zombie, he helped Callard get Benny into the bed. He offered no protest when she evicted both he and Frannie from the waiting room, telling them that Benny needed his sleep, and that they were not to return until after the six o'clock news. 

As they made their way to the waiting room, Ray looked at his watch. It was seven minutes to three. Three hours and three minutes until the end of the world. 

***

It was really an incredible sense of peace. He understood how Kamakazi pilots must have felt, flying their planes towards the enemy with only enough fuel for one way. They were going to die, probably in a violent, fiery crash, but they would die with honor. They would die for something they believed in, and hopefully, they would take something bigger with them.   
  
Francis Parker had become a Kamakazi pilot. His plane was held in his hand in the form of a glossy black Mont Blanc pen with 14-carat gold banding. His target was the system that allowed one reporter near-absolute power. He knew that as soon as he spoke the words he was planning, he would have embarked on a one-way trip. Perhaps it would end with a survivable splashdown, but more likely, he would follow his career onto a blazing pyre.   
  
At the least, he would have righted his wrongs. At the most, he would have destroyed an imbalance of power that was terrifying in it's immensity.   
  
Slowly, he rolled the pen between his thick fingers, contemplating what he was going to say. He didn't have much time. Two minutes and ten seconds. That was how much time had been allotted for the story, and that was how much he had to usurp.   
  
His work had to be flawless. In those one hundred and thirty seconds, he had to say everything. There wouldn't be a second chance. He had to right everything that needed to be righted, condemn everyone that needed to be condemned, and absolve everyone that needed to be absolved. Moreover, he had to structure it in such a way that there was no gap where the network could cut him off without looking like nazis. Each breath had to be a cliffhanger, each pause an unfinished symphony.   
  
Tapping the tip of the pen thoughtfully on the creamy surface of the paper, he reached absently for the stereo remote control that lay on the desktop. He always worked better with music in the background. Usually, he favored something classical, and that was usually found on the public radio station. Almost without needing to look, he pressed the proper buttons to activate the radio and choose the station on his large stereo system.   
  
Sure enough, the smooth, almost caressing strains of a classical orchestra filled the room. Parker smiled, and the tip of the pen began to glide and swirl over the paper. His hand was steady, his strokes sure and even as the black ink formed the smooth curves and wide loops of his handwriting. 

Good evening, ladies and  
gentl  
  
He stopped. The music had faded into the sound of a man's voice. It had  
not been an orchestral performance in it's own right, but rather the  
musical score backing a dramatic performance. Those were nearly as common  
as music alone on this station, but this one...it was as though God had  
reached down and tapped him on the shoulder with this particular choice  
from the tomes of dramatic literature that history offered. Parker identified  
the words almost instantly. Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare, Act  
Three, Scene Two. Mark Antony was delivering his famous soliloquy.  
  
Mesmerized, he turned away from his work, all his attention focused on  
the actor. Parker's own lips formed the words in unison, knowing each  
new line before it came.  
  
 _"...Countrymen, lend me your ears._  
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.  
The evil that men do lives after them,  
The good is oft interred with their bones,  
So let it be with Caesar.  
The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious,  
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,  
And grievously hath Caesar answered for it.  
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest  
For Brutus is an honorable man.  
So are they all, honorable men.  
Come I to speak at Caesar's funeral,  
He was my friend, ever faithful and just to me,  
But Brutus says he was ambitious,  
And Brutus is an honorable man.  
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,  
Who's ransoms did the general coffers fill:  
Did in this Caesar seem ambitious?  
When the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept,  
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.  
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,  
And Brutus is an honorable man.  
You did all see upon the Lupercal,  
He was thrice presented with the kingly crown,  
Which thrice he did refuse...was this ambitious?  
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,  
And surely, he is an honorable man.  
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,  
But here I am to speak what I do know.  
You all did love him once, not without cause,  
What cause withholds you now to mourn for him?  
Oh judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts.  
And men have lost their reason...."  
  
That was enough. That was more than enough. One dark, trembling finger  
came down hard on the remote, cutting off the power. Shakespeare had  
written of a Roman Emperor brought down by a friend, but his words were  
a mirror upon another situation set so many centuries later. Brutus had  
indeed been an honorable man, and it was by his honor that he had the  
power to betray Caesar and cut him down.  
  
Using his honor, his reputation, he had subtly twisted the minds of the  
Roman people to support him in what otherwise seemed the brutal murder  
of a defenseless man. He had called Caesar ambitious, and the minds of  
the public were enraged by those accusations of heartless ambition. The  
punishment Brutus and the others had meted out had become suddenly appropriate.  
Hail Brutus! He had destroyed the ambitious Caesar! He had saved Rome  
from a fate only the Gods could guess!  
  
Parker had retraced the steps of that ancient Roman traitor. No, he had  
not plunged a literal knife, but the wounds he had inflicted had been  
just as deep. Eyes closed, he whispered the Bard's words again. "And  
men have lost their reason..."  
  
They had not lost their reason. He had stolen it. Now, he had to give  
it back, and there was only one way of doing that. In two minutes and  
ten seconds, he had to speak as eloquently as Mark Antony. He had to  
return the reason which he had so deftly stolen, and he had to sheath  
the knife he had drawn upon the Ides of March.  
  
Lowering pen to paper again, Francis Parker continued to write. No muscle  
moved except for his hand, and he hardly dared breathe until it was complete.  
  
Even as he wrote, he wondered how it had come to this. All through his  
career, he had considered himself the perfect journalist, the perfect  
idealist. He had been nobel and righteous, looking down on those who  
persecuted him for the color of his skin, working and using and doing  
what needed to be done to get where he wanted to be. It had been a good  
career, and in truth, he did have many, many things to be proud of.

What he did not have to be proud of was the pride itself. He had allowed that pride to blind him to how he was himself corrupting, allowing his personal achievements to twist his view of the world. Because so many of the men and women he had encountered in life had been dark, he had schooled himself to believe that light could not exist. In that self-imposed darkness, he had justified and carefully defined so many things. Blackmail. Arrogance. Prejudice.   
  
Yes, prejudice. He had to admit that his pursuit and hatred of Benton Fraser had been an act of prejudice as vile as any that had ever been committed. He had seen in that handsome face the image of every hypocrite that had slapped him in the face with an angelic smile. He had refused to believe that Fraser could honestly be what he appeared to be, and he had twisted every bit of evidence in the worst possible way to reflect his own perceptions.   
  
The worst part about all of that was that in his self-styled witch hunt, the true villain of the piece had been lost. That villain was not Francis Parker. That villain was not Benton Fraser. That villain was Jason Pittman.   
  
A terrible, terrible tragedy had occurred, yet using his power and the power of the media, he had made the nation all but forget the reality of it within days. Everyone had been so focused on Fraser's supposed ambitiousness that they had forgotten Jason's act of violence. 

Yes, Jason had died. Yes, that was tragic. But it was also his own fault. He had chosen to take that gun. He had chosen to enter the school. And he had chosen to fill those halls with blood and death. Parker knew that had he not died accidentally by Fraser's hand, he would have almost surely died by the hands of the SWAT team, and very much on purpose. 

In painting Fraser as the villain, he had painted Jason as the victim, and the true victims had been lost. The true victims were a budding artist who's talent would never be realized, a computer geek who would never have a chance to mold the future, and a drummer who would never take the stage. Rebecca Lieberman, Keith Chapman, and Emmanuel Montoya were victims twice. Once, their lives had been stolen by Jason Pittman, and the second time by Francis Parker when he made the world forget them. 

He would have to end this vendetta against Fraser to allow the world to do right by the victims and to learn from the villain. He would have to make room not only to mourn the dead, but to support the wounded.   
  
Parker remembered Alan Trihn, the varsity running back who had taken two bullets to his right shoulder. The young man had been gifted a college scholarship, and had been eagerly poised to be the first Asian-American in the NFL. Those dreams had been shattered. And what about Kiesha Carter? The lithe, graceful moves of the dancer had died with one bullet to the lung and one to the spinal cord. Or Ricky DeMarco, who had been reduced from learning his fourth language to re-learning his first by a bullet through his brain. There were seven others, all with stories, all with shattered lives. He had seen their stories pared down to minor foot notes to accommodate his witch hunt.   
  
He would change that now.   
  
Finally, what seemed like days or moments later, he lifted the paper. It was completely covered with his smooth, even lettering, the words so surely composed that none had needed to be scratched out. He would commit it to memory, and he would recite it in a little more than an hour, at six o'clock.   
  
If he memorized and recited it, he would have passed the point of no return. There was a very good possibility he would never work in news again. Yet he felt no hesitation, no doubt about what he was going to do. As he looked at the simple, infinitely weighty paper, an ironic smile touched his full lips. "Et tu, Parker?" 

***

 All the preparations had been made. Stories had been chosen, prioritized, and written. Makeup had been done. Lights had been set. Promos had been filmed and aired. It was time once again for News Ten at Six. 

Francis Parker took a deep breath, glancing down one last time at the script in front of him. He did it because he always did it, not because he was the least bit interested in what the printed pages had to say. No doubt Sydney Omarr had done his usual fine work, but Chicago would hear none of it tonight. 

The memorized words tumbled over and over in his mind. He could do this. He would do this. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at O'Donnell. She smiled back, bright white teeth shining in the lights, and he almost chuckled at the irony. The poor girl had no clue that she would be flying solo inside of ten minutes. 

"Fifteen seconds to air!" Ronnie Chu ducked quickly out of the camera's line of sight as she shouted the warning. It was time for last-second sips of water to be stowed away, and for professional images to be slipped into place. On national television, no one's nose ever itches, and no one ever, ever has a bad hair day. They had to reflect that. 

"Five...four...three...two...one...." Ronnie mouthed the word "now", punctuating it with a quick stab of her finger towards the two anchors. 

The cameras were rolling. The TelePrompTers were prompting. The monitors were reflecting their images back at them. All of Chicago was watching, along with a significant portion of the rest of the nation. 

For Francis Parker, it was the point of no return. 

***

The television set, usually relegated to a far corner, now occupied the center of the squad room. In eerie defiance of its normally bustling, noisy atmosphere, it was almost completely silent. Even the criminals seemed to understand that something important was about to happen. If they didn't, their escorting police officers didn't take long to clarify the matter, or to inform them of the dire consequences they would reap if they dared to interrupt The News. 

Elaine Besbriss was the unofficial watcher of the clock and mediator of the television, and she waited until the minute hand clicked precisely onto the six o'clock hour. A push of a button, and the News Ten logo appeared on the screen. 

Hearts beat faster. Fists clenched. Mouths went dry enough to spit feathers. Oaths were muttered, promising evil deeds to be done against offending journalists. Criminals wondered what exactly had the officers so tense. Officers didn't care what criminals wondered. 

It was like standing on the roof of your house, watching a nuclear bomb sailing in. Within moments, you knew that everything would be reduced to cinders, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. All you could do was watch and wait. So they did. 

***

In a small waiting room in Cook County General Hospital, five people clustered closely around the television set, necks craned upwards. Ray, Frannie, and Ma had been joined by Thatcher and Turnbull. They made a rather odd picture, Ray realized, staring at the television as though they were expecting it to suddenly leap from the mountings and attempt an escape.

Of course, what they were waiting for was only slightly less drastic. Ray didn't know exactly how Parker was planning on twisting Benny's words, but he knew that they were going to come out bearing a striking resemblance to your average pretzel. He wondered if he should book reservations in prison now, or if he should wait until he had actually killed Parker. 

His quick look around their little group caught Thatcher's eye, and he offered her a small, desperate grin. She returned it, the strained smile of a man and a woman who are smiling so that they don't just give up and cry. 

They'd both worked so hard to try and save Fraser's butt. Both of them had placed their professional backsides in very flimsy slings, not to mention endured the hardship of working with one another. Ray had to admit that he had come to develop a respect for the Inspector, if not a friendship, but it didn't make the bitter pill of their failure any easier to swallow. If anything, it made it a little harder. One would think that if one went through the trouble of getting along with someone one formerly despised, one would be granted some sort of celestial favor in return. 

Instead, all he got was the opportunity to watch their failure in the company of the formerly despised individual. 

The Mounties had planned on watching the unfolding disaster at the Consulate, but Thatcher had quickly realized that as soon as the shock wore off, her office would be deluged. She had been through enough of those floods in the last few weeks that she could safely conclude that she didn't like them, and that she would rather be elsewhere when they began.

The trumpeting, triumphant music of the News Ten theme drew their attention back to the screen. It had begun. 

***

Inside room L-13, Linda Callard sat at her patient's bedside. She would have liked for him to have slept through the entire affair, but he had awoken just in time. The television was back, and tuned to the offending station. 

She had conceded to let him watch only because she had no choice in the matter. Who was allowed into the room, however, was under her control, if only by virtue of the fact that no one in their right mind would attempt to get through her. The Vecchios and the other Mounties had been relegated to the waiting room for the duration of the news. When the inevitable happened, she knew that Ben would need to be alone, and she would make sure that he was. 

He seemed completely calm as the introduction began. Outwardly, Callard matched that calm and mixed it with gentle, maternal support, but inside she was seething. With her spoken words, she assured him that it would be all right, that nothing bad would happen. 

Privately, she knew better, and swore that if Parker dared to hurt her Ben, she would seek him out and give him a physical exam he would never forget. 

***

"And in our top story tonight, News Ten at Six has been able to obtain an exclusive interview with Constable Benton Fraser. Earlier this afternoon, upon the Constable's invitation, our very own Francis Parker was granted this extraordinary opportunity. Francis?" O'Donnell turned the conversation smoothly over to her co-anchor, following the script precisely. Her smile was still wide and professional, innocent of the departure that was about to occur. 

Parker lifted his own script, looked at it a moment, then deliberately set it down. Taking a deep breath, he looked directly into the glass eye of the camera. 

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This afternoon, I did in fact have the opportunity to speak with Constable Benton Fraser. As you are all aware, I have postulated a number of opinions concerning this man over the course of the past several weeks. Up until this afternoon, I had never met him, never heard his voice, never looked him in the eye, yet I had allowed myself to condemn not only his actions, but his character."

O'Donnell's smile had become plastic, her eyes confused. Behind the camera, he could see the crew frantically checking scripts. He knew what they were all thinking. It wasn't in the script. He was deviating from the script. None of them had been expecting it, and none of them knew what to do now that it was happening. 

"I am standing here before you now to offer a confession and an apology. I was wrong. I was wrong about Constable Fraser, but more importantly, I was wrong about myself. 

To properly do their job, a journalist must often make judgments about people they have never and will never meet face to face. There is nothing wrong with this in and of itself. One must weigh the factual evidence against the words of those who do know the person, and one must produce an unbiased conclusion based on these facts and opinions. It is there where I failed Constable Fraser, and there where I failed all of you."

By now, it was more than obvious that he had no intention of even remotely following the prepared script. Ronnie Chu and Tony Marciolla looked like emotionally disturbed monkeys, literally hopping up and down, gesticulating furiously in an attempt to make him cease his madness. Everyone was getting into the act, drawing fingers across throats and waving arms to try and indicate that he must stop this immediately. Parker did not stop. 

"In my past, I have been a victim of prejudice. I have come to hate it with all my heart and soul, and I have dedicated much of my life to fighting it. These past several weeks, I have been guilty of it. I prejudged Constable Fraser, deciding on my own that he could not be what he appeared to be, because I was prejudiced that people like him could not truly be honest. They could only seem to be honest. I sought out evidence and I interviewed witnesses, but I bent their conclusions to my mold. Every sight was seen through lenses fogged by my preconceptions, and I betrayed my trust as a journalist by passing that distortion on to you."

They were resigned to it now. The frantic gesturing had stopped, and now they were simply trying to deal with the hard reality of their lead anchorman apparently losing his mind on the air. They couldn't cut him off. He knew it, and most of all, they knew it. Were they to cut him off now, in the middle of this, the public would go absolutely nuts. As it was, they might only go mostly nuts. 

"When you turn on the news, you expect to see unbiased reporting. You expect to see the truth. The problem with the system we use to bring you news is that it is never entirely unbiased, as it is always human. We report to no one but ourselves. We apologize only if we feel the need. Yet we wield the power to change and destroy lives. In my opinion, that is a condition perilously close to absolute power, and it has been said that absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Ronnie Chu looked about ready to cry. Tony Marciolla looked about ready to walk up on the set and rip Parker's vocal cords out. Someone had fetched the Executive Producer from his office, and he looked like an excellent candidate for a heart attack some time in the very near future. On his reflection in the monitors, Parker simply looked serene. 

"I do not believe that I have corrupted absolutely yet, but I have corrupted, and I have hurt several people by that corruption. To Constable Fraser, his friends, his co-workers, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the Chicago Police Department, I would like to extend my deepest apologies for the grief I have caused you. To this station, I would like to extend my resignation as of this broadcast, as well as the assurance that in no way do I consider you responsible for what has happened here. 

To all of you in the viewing audience, I would ask only one thing as I step down from this position of trust you have allowed me. I ask your forgiveness." 

With the dignity of a long-forgotten king, he nodded quietly to his audience, then turned and stepped off the set. The screen was switched immediately over to commercials as the station erupted in bedlam. 

Parker simply walked through it all, ignoring the questions fired at him, stepping around those who tried to physically bar his path. He stopped only for a moment to pick up his coat, then continued walking out through the front door. What he was leaving behind didn't matter. That wasn't his station any more. That wasn't his life any more. He had done what he had to do, and in doing it, he had given up everything else. 

It was over. 

***

Breaths were held. Glances were exchanged. _Did I really see that? Did we really hear that? Is it really over this easily, this simply?_ Eyes blinked in disbelief. Limbs were frozen in shock. _Could so many ears be deceived?_

It was over.

The dam broke. In the precinct, it was Gardino, letting out a war whoop befitting any bloodcurdling John Wayne redskin. In the waiting room, it was Frannie, emitting her own cry that was pitched an octave or so higher, as though that same redskin were wearing his loincloth a few sizes too small. 

It was over. 

Backs were slapped. High fives were given. Tears were wiped from eyes. There was laughter and there was crying, and there were strange, simultaneous mixtures of the two. A pile of reports on Detective Huey's desk became spontaneous confetti. Turnbull and Frannie literally danced around the waiting room, their steps a mixture of fifty percent jig, fifty percent jitterbug, and three hundred percent joy. Did Welsh really throw that handful of papers himself? Did Ray really find himself hugging Thatcher? No one cared. 

It was over.

***

In room L-13, the response was far quieter. Callard was stunned, staring at the television as though unable to believe that a member of the hated media seemed to have grown a heart. 

Fraser simply smiled, a quiet, deep smile that looked to be on loan from the Mona Lisa. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Parker," he whispered, "thank you kindly." 

It was over. 

***

For a man who had very likely just flushed a four-decade career down the proverbial toilet, Francis Parker was remarkably calm. As if mirroring his strange peace, the black late-model Cadillac glided like a ghost through the evening traffic towards O'Hare International Airport. 

Parker was meticulous and detail-oriented by nature, and he hadn't approached the aftermath of his confession any more haphazardly than the deed itself. A gentle Mozart piano concerto filled the plush leather interior of the car, the compositions of the young Austrian prodigy issuing from the CD player rather than the radio. He knew the radio would likely be inundated with opinions on what he had just done, and he didn't want to bother with opinions just now.

That was why he was leaving. He had known that his actions would cause a hurricane of activity, and he also knew that his presence would only exacerbate it. Parker would leave the country for a month or so, then slowly attempt to resume a normal life once it had all blown over. 

It was not as though he would be returning to nothing. His luxurious town house was completely paid for, and he had been making a salary of three-quarters of a million dollars annually for almost ten years now. Combined with his previous savings in a judicious selection of mutual funds and other financial ventures, he had more than enough income to live very, very comfortably without ever touching his capital. Even if he never worked again, he knew he could maintain the style of life he had become accustomed to, so what was he really losing?

His reputation? Not really. If anything, his reputation in the mind of the common man would be elevated. The public was all too used to being fed all kinds of crap when politicians and media made mistakes. He had come out and confessed, and he doubted that they would stone him for that when he returned to Chicago. Indeed, the average Joe might throw him a party.

His job? Certainly, but there were other news positions, weren't there? And if there wasn't, if no station or paper would ever hire him again, he had already had over forty very good years. 

When one got right down to it, he wasn't losing a damn thing except for his own guilt. Chicago would be waiting for him when he got back, and then he could make the decisions about the rest of his life. He could afford to wait out the storm. 

Mentally, he checked off his plans. His accountant had been instructed to oversee his bills, as well as pay the maid and hire a gardener to maintain his back yard in Parker's absence. A note on the refrigerator instructed the maid to take whatever she wanted and give all other perishables to charity. His security system would keep his belongings safe. His platinum cards would preclude any need for cash. A suitcase was packed in the back seat, the contents holding all his basic needs for a month's refuge. His airline tickets were waiting for him at the Delta desk.

He had decided to go to La Paz, Mexico. It was remote, not one of the big tourist traps like Cancun or Mexico City, but it still held enough creature comforts to make it more of a vacation than an exile. Parker could rent a hacienda with a view, buy what clothes he hadn't brought, and generally live in comfort until America had forgotten about the reporter who dared to blow the whistle on himself. 

The only truly unfinished business was familial. He knew that fellow reporters would soon descend on his family, and he didn't want his parents or siblings to be left unaware of where he was. 

Parker dialed the number one-handed, his eyes never needing to leave the road. It was the same number he called every week, only this time, the circumstances were a bit different. 

Tucking the phone into the crook of his neck, he listened as it rang. There was only time for it to ring twice, then a young voice answered. "H'lo?" 

He smiled, "Hello, Mikey, it's uncle Francis. Can you get your Granmama on the" 

" _Granmama_!!! GRAAAANMAMAAAA!! He's on the phoooooooooone!!!" The volume issuing from his six-year-old nephew's lungs caused him to hold the phone almost three feet from his ear until the phone was finally taken by someone a bit older.

"Francis?" At the sound of his mother's voice, he brought the phone close again. 

"Hello, Mama. You saw the news." It wasn't a question, but a statement. She had never missed a single one of his broadcasts in all the years he had worked for News Ten at Six. He had known that she would have seen this one, and he knew that he couldn't abandon her to the consequences of his actions. 

"I saw." Her voice was hard, rough, the graveled tones of a woman who raised six children in poverty while her husband worked two jobs to keep food on the table. She was a seamstress who had never passed the sixth grade herself, but who had seen all of her children graduate college with honors. Amelia Parker was not a woman who accepted anything less than the absolute best you could do, and she was certainly not a woman who accepted failure or corruption in the children she had raised. Her son waited, knowing that she wouldn't leave it at a simple 'I saw'. For several long seconds, she allowed him to wait, allowed him to wonder what she thought about it. "I can't believe you did that to that Mountie boy, Francis. You been taking him down nigh on three weeks now, when now you saying he didn't do nothing. My son been taking him down."

"I'm sorry, Mama." He didn't know what else he could say. It hurt. Somehow, though he had said those words to himself a thousand times and just now on national television, it hurt more to hear his mother say them.

"I know you're sorry. You said you was sorry, and you 'fessed up. You 'fessed up to everybody, and you made it right. I'm proud of you." Her voice softened in a verbal hug, and a thousand miles away, a grown man felt like a little boy again, strengthened and reassured by his mother's confirmation of his deeds. 

"I called to tell you I'm going away for about a month, just to let things blow over. I'm sorry to put you and the family on the spot like this, but I have to get away if things are going to have a chance to calm down." 

"You go where you need to go, I'll take care of everything." In his mind's eye, he could almost see her shooing him out the door. "Don't you worry about it. Just remember, I'm proud of you. We's all proud of you. Now you go on before you run your phone bill up to kingdom come."

"Yes, Mama. Goodbye." Smiling, he hung up as he pulled into the turn lane for O'Hare. His family was proud of him, but he had to admit, he was pretty damned proud of himself, too. He'd 'fessed up, and he'd made it right. That was all anyone could ask. 

*** 

With the news of Fraser's exoneration barely three minutes old, the excitement in the waiting room had not died down in the slightest. Ma was crying, her handkerchief wadded up in a sodden ball that she dabbed against her eyes. Ray knew he had an absolutely ridiculous grin plastered across his face, and even Thatcher was smiling broadly, but it was Turnbull and Frannie who took the cake. 

They looked like jubilant children. As soon as the shock had worn off, the big Mountie had swept Ray's sister off her feet in a huge bear hug, twirling her around with her feet off the ground as she laughed like a schoolgirl. They were dancing now, a strange impromptu dance conducted to wildly happy music that only the two of them could hear. Then Frannie held out her arms to Turnbull like a little girl, causing herself to be swept in another feet-in-the-air circle. She was still laughing, and Turnbull wore a grin that threatened to break his face. 

Ray couldn't help but laugh as well, a desperately relieved chuckle. It felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and he could see that Thatcher felt the same, sharing the vicarious pleasure of watching kid sister and subordinate officer give full voice to the excitement they all felt. 

As Frannie's feet finally touched the ground again, she s wiped aside a strand of dark hair that had come loose during the celebration. "We've..." She paused, getting out the words between her gasps for air. "We've gotta go...Benton..." 

Turnbull nodded eagerly, and all eyes turned to Ray. He wasn't sure exactly how he had been elected the leader of their little band, but not even Thatcher seemed to argue with the choice. He led them down the hall towards L-13, but stopped just outside the door. 

"Is something wrong, Detective?" A bit of the old annoyance was back in Thatcher's tone, the impatience with the seemingly incomprehensible way he conducted things.

If she'd been there a couple of hours earlier, she wouldn't have questioned Ray's actions for a moment. Callard was in there. She was in there, and the Detective vividly remembered the lecture that he and Frannie had gotten as soon as she had tucked Fraser safely into bed and made sure that he was asleep. It had been more than a little intimidating to be reprimanded by a woman as old as his mother, yet taller and broader than he was...not to mention furious. He winced at the mere thought of the threats she had leveled against him if he even dared to think about coming back into Benny's room. 

As carefully and deferentially as possible, he knocked on the door to Benny's room. There was a pause, then Callard's voice came, the tone a strange cross between shocked and suspicious. "Who's there?" 

"Detective Vecchio, ma'am. Can we come in?" He held his breath, listening hard. There were the sounds of what seemed to be a brief and slightly muffled argument, then a familiar voice. It was Benny's voice. 

"Come in, Ray." 

Ray opened the door, only to find he had opened it almost directly into Callard's chest. The nurse almost filled the doorway, completely blocking their access to the room. Her eyes were stern, her hands on her hips, but her mouth betrayed a slight smile from the same relief that was moving all of them. "I'm not going to have you upsetting him," she warned, "so keep it down." 

Satisfied by the chorus of nods and assurances before her, she stepped aside, allowing them entry. Technically, Ray was first into the room, followed closely by Thatcher, but Frannie and Turnbull shot around the sides as though greased. 

His sister ran to Benny's bedside, but a stern glare from Callard quickly reminded her of decorum. Rather than leap onto the Mountie as Ray had suspected was her intent, she contented herself with a little squeal of delight as she clutched his hand tightly. "Did you _see_!! Did you _see_ , Frase!!"

Benny was smiling as broadly as any of them, though Ray could see the weariness that still dulled the blue eyes. "Yes, Francesca," he said indulgently, "I saw. It was...very kind of him." 

Turnbull pulled himself to such rigid attention that it made Ray's back hurt just to watch him. The young Mountie's arm snapped up into a salute so sharp that the American was afraid he would slice the top of his head off with the side of his hand. Turnbull's jaw was clenched so tightly that his cheeks were quivering, his eyes brimming with pride. Benny saw and returned the salute, though his own was a bit limp, as well as being delivered with his left hand. 

Ray could hear Turnbull manfully sniff back his emotions as he remained at ramrod attention at the foot of the bed, but as amusing as that might be, Ray's attention was elsewhere. He came up quietly to the side of the bed, still feeling that same stupid grin on his face as he reached past his sister. She glared at him for a moment, then seemed to realize that now was not the time to get possessive and stepped back. 

Being very, very careful not to squeeze too tightly, nor to come into contact with his friend's injured shoulder, Ray wrapped his arms around Benny in a firm, brotherly hug. He knew he should let go quickly, but he couldn't. It was as if he had to keep some physical contact to remind himself that this wasn't a dream. He knew he should say something, but he couldn't. All the relief, all the pent-up emotion of the past weeks choked off the words, and all he could do was hug the guy who'd somehow survived the impossible. 

Benny's left arm came up around him, and he felt a wave of anger against fate when he felt how weak it was, how thin Benny was beneath the hospital gown that he was again wearing. He remembered the last time he had hugged him, when they had survived that damned plane crash and made it back to civilization. He had been injured then too, but he had still felt so strong, so solidly _there_. Not like this. 

Damn, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that there were guys out there like Parker who would, confession or no confession, put them through what he had. It wasn't fair that there were kids like Jason Pittman who took guns to school and shot the hell out of other people's lives. It wasn't fair that it was always the good people who took the brunt of the unfairness, and the people who cared about the good people who had to set it right. It wasn't fair, but damn it, sometimes it worked out anyway.

He wanted to tell Benny that. Ray wanted to tell him everything he had done over the past three weeks to fight the unfairness. He wanted to tell him that he had worked his ass off, that he had lost his badge for two weeks, that he had worked with the Dragon Lady, and that the black eye was not, in fact, from the kitchen cupboard. 

Somehow, although Ray couldn't force a single word past the tightness in his chest and throat, Benny knew. He knew with the same best-friends certainty with which the Mountie always read his mind. "Thank you, Ray." 

The cop held the hug a moment longer, then let him go, his face somehow managing to hide most of what he was feeling. "Hey, no problem."

Ma and Thatcher still had their congratulations to give, and Ray could see them both waiting patiently. Knowing that he was on the edge of making an idiot of himself as it was, he stepped back, retreating to a corner of the room. He felt so tired, as though something had come along and slowly drained everything out of him, leaving only a limp shell in an Armani suit. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the wall. 

It was over. Thank God it was over. He couldn't take much more of this.

A ringing sound brought him back to reality, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. It was probably someone from the precinct, or maybe Maria calling to congratulate Benny. He flipped the phone open and pulled out the antenna as he raised it to his ear. "Vecchio."

"Detective Vecchio, this is doctor VonTrott from Pet Keeper's animal clinic." Ray froze. It was not Maria. It was not the precinct. It was the vet. 

He could feel the blood drain from his face, and knew he must appear almost as pale as Benny. "Yeah, what is it?" Why was he asking? He knew what this was about. It was about what it had been about since the wolf had first gotten skewered. 

"Mr. Vecchio, we're going to need a decision tonight. I'm afraid I cannot allow you to postpone this choice any longer, and I strongly advise you to consider what would be the most merciful for the animal. Will you allow us to put Diefenbaker to sleep tonight?" 

"I..." He couldn't do it. Not only could he not kill Dief, but he couldn't let him go, either. It wasn't his decision. It was Fraser's decision, and it was a hell of a decision to drop on the guy at a time like this. Ray swallowed hard, then looked over at his friend. Benny was looking back at him, his eyes questioning what was happening on the phone that was such bad news. His eyes were worried, but so trusting, like a little kid's. No, Ray couldn't do it on his own. "I'll call you back."

Almost violently, he punched the button to hang up the phone, then snapped it shut and dropped it down in his pocket. He stayed back in the corner, watching everyone fuss over Benny, trying not to appear too conspicuous in his absence. He'd just wait until everyone was gone, then he'd tell him. Then he'd break the news, and quite possibly, his best friend's heart in the bargain. 

Several times during the next few minutes, he saw Benny's eyes flicker worried gazes back towards him, but he did his best to deflect them with a few weak smiles and an equally-pitiful thumbs up. He knew that he wasn't doing much to dispel the Mountie's suspicions, but at least he wasn't asking anything out loud. 

Despite his three-hour nap, Benny was still visibly tired from the events of the day, and before long, Callard called an end to the visitation session. Ray was more than happy to see the others leave, but he knew that he couldn't. He stood his ground as the giant hand clamped on to his shoulder. "Come on, Detective, you're not exempt." 

Ray cast a pleading look at the Mountie, and Fraser held up a hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Callard, but Detective Vecchio may remain." 

For a moment, Callard actually looked as though she might outright refuse, but she finally released her hold on the cop and exited in a cloud of wounded dignity. Benny smiled, and Ray saw a touch of sheepish amusement in the expression. "Mrs. Callard is a bit....protective at times."

Ray snorted. "No kidding." He drew the chair up close to Benny's bedside and sat down, his elbows resting on his knees. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit tired, Ray."

"But you're okay? I mean, nothing's hurting or anything?" 

Benny paused a moment. "Nothing significant." The cop quickly translated the Fraserese to mean ' _yes-I-hurt-but-I'm-not-about-to-complain-because-it-hasn't-reached-the-stage-of-screaming-in-agony-yet_ '. He smiled, but the smile quickly faded as Benny spoke again. "Is there something you wanted to tell me, Ray?"

His long fingers twisted and fidgeted nervously as Ray looked down and away before being able to bring himself to meet his friend's eyes. "You remember about Dief, right?"   
  
A strange expression that was half guarded fear and half absolute trust appeared on the Mountie's face. "The reports said that he had been injured, but you said that you were taking care of him." The fear brightened, intensified, though it still would not have been visible to anyone who did not know him well. "Is he all right?"   
  
"I...uh..." God, there was no easy way to do this, was there? He'd just have to say it, say it and hope that no supreme being would strike him down for the mortal sin of squashing a Canadian heart. "Dief...he was kinda hurt a little more than maybe I hinted at when we talked earlier."   
  
"Ray?"   
  
He couldn't do it. He couldn't tell him. Instead, he addressed the admission to a point about four inches to the right of Benny's ear. "The kid shoved a knife in him, really ripped his guts out. The vets wanted to put him down right then and there, but I wouldn't let them. I made them do surgery a couple times, antibiotics, the whole route. They...uh...they just called...."   
  
"He has...died, then?" It was eerie how calm Benny's voice seemed, but in the quietude and the slight tremble, Ray could hear the horror. He couldn't imagine how this must feel. To be on top of the world one moment, thinking all your problems have been solved, and then to be told that one of your best friends has been keeping things from you, and your other best friend is dying. Quite frankly, it was a situation that sucked on par with your average black hole.   
  
"No, but he's in a lot of pain, and they don't think he's going to make it. They called about putting him down." Ray forced himself to meet Benny's eyes, and what he saw made him feel like the scum of the earth. 

There was nothing more to say, and he waited, waited as Benny's hands tightened on the white sheets, crushing and twisting them. Most guys would be cussing, kicking walls, throwing things. Benny just crumpled sheets. The thing was, Ray knew that even if he had been completely healthy, he would still have just crumpled sheets. Maybe not even that.   
  
Why couldn't the guy scream, or cry, or punch him in the mouth for hiding Dief's condition from him? Strangely, Ray thought that might make him feel better. If he was letting everything out, he could deal with that. Instead, he had to watch him just lay there, all propped up against the pillows, twisting the sheets, not saying a damned thing. Just looking at the wrinkles he was creating, breathing real deep and real slow. Not looking at him, not speaking to him.   
  
Finally, Ray snapped. He couldn't take this silent crap. "Look, I'm sorry. I mean, he's your wolf and all, and I know you should be the one making the decisions. I shoulda told you earlier, but first you were out...and then we had all this shit with that news bastard..."   
  
"No, no, I understand, Ray. You were doing what you thought was best for everyone. I...appreciate that." His voice was still low and quiet, still almost a whisper. There was another long pause, then his eyes came up. The cop couldn't see even the slightest hint of tears, but he recognized shock when he saw it. It was the same look he saw in the eyes of murder victim's families, the strange numbness between the news and the tears when he told them a loved one wouldn't be coming home. "May I borrow your telephone?" 

"Sure." He pulled out the phone and opened it, holding it out to the Mountie.   
  
Benny stared at it a moment, then looked back up at Ray. "Would you please dial the veterinarian for me? I'm afraid that I have not yet recovered the necessary manual dexterity to place a phone call."   
  
"No problem." Retrieving Dr. VonTrott's card from his wallet, he punched the proper numbers into the cell phone and pressed 'send' before handing it over again.   
  
Ray could see Benny's hand shaking as he held the telephone to his ear, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was from physical pain, exhaustion, or emotional pain. He waited, mentally counting how many times the phone would have rung. Maybe VonTrott wouldn't pick up. Maybe they wouldn't have to face this.   
  
"Doctor VonTrott, this is Constable Fraser." So much for not having to face it. Benny's face was expressionless as he talked with the vet. "Yes...yes, he is my wolf, sir." A pause. "Could you please explain his condition and course of treatment thus far?" Another, longer pause. The blue eyes squeezed tightly shut, a web of painful creases appearing on the pale skin. "I see. Yes. I understand." His voice choked off, then returned, rough and trembling. "Detective Vecchio will be there shortly. Goodbye."   
  
The phone was lowered slowly to the sheets, clutched with strength that Ray didn't think the other man still had. As it was, the phone looked in imminent danger of being crushed. The cop cleared his throat, "Uh, Benny?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"You're going to squish my phone."   
  
His eyes didn't open, but he released the phone, Ray barely catching it before it bounced off the sheets and hit the floor. He looked at it, seeing the sweaty fingerprints on the black casing. "How'd it go?" 

"I..." The word choked off, and Benny took a deep breath, forcing himself to speak. "I spoke to Doctor VonTrott. He...I...we believe it would be...most appropriate to..." His voice trailed off, and this time, he couldn't bring it back.   
  
"Put him down?" Ray finished gently.   
  
"Yes." Benny paused, then his eyes opened, looking straight into Ray's. This time, there were tears visible, though none had yet spilled over onto his cheeks. "I was wondering if you would go and be with him...in the end." 

Ray nodded, clapping Benny softly on his good shoulder as he stood. "Sure thing."   
  
"Thank you...kindly." His eyes lowered again, not a single drop of moisture escaping. Ray nodded as he turned away, fleeing the room before Benny couldn't hold back the tears any more.   
  
The door had barely closed behind him when he stopped, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. An inarticulate rage began to build up, boiling through the tightness in his chest, burning down his arms and collecting in his fists. His fist slammed against the wall. Once. Twice. Again and again until his knuckles left red prints on the white paint. 

He was raging against God, against fate, against life, against whatever sadistic being was controlling this hellish scenario. When finally his entire arm was throbbing, blood falling in fat drops from his split knuckles, he allowed his arm to sag to his side. His knees felt like pudding, and he slid slowly down the wall he had been assaulting, streaking the red stains down in long stripes.   
  
His head sagged forward into his hands, and he could feel his whole body trembling violently. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and scream and scream until his throat was raw and the sound wouldn't come any more. Why, why, _why, WHY_ couldn't something go right? Why did one hell have to proceed immediately into another hell?   
  
"Is there something wrong with giving the guy a break? Huh?!" Ray addressed his rant to the fluorescent lighting, but more than that, to the sadist above it, the guy pulling the strings on the whole damned puppet show. "Is there something so wrong with letting the damned wolf live? Do you just have to replace one fucked up thing with another one? Huh? You let him live but you send that bastard to screw up his life! You dump the bastard, but you kill the wolf! What's next? Huh? You gonna take me next? Is that it? Well just get it over with, why dontcha? Just blast me off the face of this miserable planet and get it over with!!"   
  
There was no answer. Not that he had expected one.   
  
Maybe he might have expected something three weeks earlier. Maybe he might have expected some kind of cosmic justice, some kind of mercy. Not any more.   
  
He didn't believe in that any more. 

***

"Hey, big fella, it's gonna be okay...everything's gonna be okay." Ray held the large white muzzle in his lap, running his fingers through the thick fur. To the casual observer, Dief simply appeared to be as lazy as he usually was, lolling around and falling asleep at the drop of a hat. If you looked more closely, however, you saw the thick white dressing that wrapped around his abdomen, the laxity in the strong limbs, the dullness in the brown eyes. 

He wasn't slumbering on his favorite rug, or beneath Ray's desk. Instead, he was lying on a cold metal table. Inside his body, infection and fever raged. The wolf was barely conscious, his eyes glassy and showing nothing but a pain that had grown too severe to deal with. Once-glossy fur was dull now, several chunks shaved away to allow access to the flesh beneath. His body - once edging perilously close to chubby thanks to his donut fetish - was now sharp and bony, the ribs clearly felt. Every muscle was limp, the rise and fall of his ribcage slow and labored.

It was the first time Ray had actually laid eyes on him since the incident. He felt sick looking at what the proud wolf had been reduced to. How much pain had this poor animal suffered in these past weeks? At least Benny could understand what and why when he hurt...Dief just knew that he did. His existence had been nothing but pain without meaning, stretching on day after day and night after night.

He should have put him down that first day. What had holding out done, after all? It had forced Benny to make the choice to kill his companion, and it had forced Dief to suffer. Ray knelt on the tile floor, the not-quite-dried blood on his knuckles leaving russet streaks through the wolf's fur as he petted the thick ruff. "I'm sorry. Really sorry...I was just kinda hoping that you'd pull through, that we'd get some kind of miracle. Stupid, huh?"

Dief had always seemed almost human in the way he 'conversed' with people. Normally, Ray would have expected a whine or a nuzzle or simply a look from those intelligent eyes that he had once admitted seemed to hide a person rather than an animal. This time, there was nothing. 

"Don't worry, boy, it'll all be over soon...I'm gonna let the Doctor send you off to the happy hunting grounds...or maybe Dunkin Donuts. You pick, okay?" He buried his face in the soft, thick fur, hugging the animal closely as he felt the white fur soak up the few tears that had escaped his eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, he released the wolf and looked up at Dr. VonTrott. "Go on." 

The syringe had already been filled, and he slid the needle smoothly into Dief's flank. Ray winced, though Dief did not. He turned away from what the vet was doing, holding the wolf tightly again. Benny hadn't wanted him to be alone. "Your Mountie's gonna miss you like crazy, you know," he whispered, "me too. I'm gonna miss you, you manipulative, thieving, crazy son of"

He stopped. Something felt different. Not he's-dying-now different, but something-is-getting-better different. His head shot up, and he saw that almost two thirds of the fatal dose of medication had already been pumped in. "Stop!" 

VonTrott looked up in confusion. "Detective?"

"He's coming around!" Ray held his breath, looking down at the wolf's still form. Urgently, he shook him as though trying to rouse a sleeping child. "C'mon, Dief, you can do this..." There was no response, but Ray knew what he had felt. His eyes burned with desperation as he looked up at the vet. "Don't do it."

The vet's round face became an interesting shade of red as his brows knitted in anger and confusion. "Detective Vecchio, his owner has requested..."

"Look, I don't give a damn what his owner has requested! Something just happened, and if Benny was here, I know he'd say the same thing! You kill him, I kill you!!" Maybe it was the blood on Ray's hands and clothing, maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his chin that gave him a truly wild look, or maybe it was the gleam of homicide and faint madness in those same green eyes. 

Whatever it was, VonTrott backed down, dropping the partially-filled needle into a red biohazard trash can. "Yes, sir." 

"That stuff you put in him...was it enough to kill him?" 

"I didn't administer the full dose, Mr. Vecchio, but that was a fairly potent barbiturate cocktail. The amount he did receive has put him in a coma. There really isn't much of a chance for improvement at this..."

"But there is a chance?"

VonTrott sputtered a moment, then admitted, "Minuscule. To be honest, it would fall under the definition of miracle if this animal made it through the night." 

Ray's eyes narrowed as the moved from vet to wolf and back again. "Is he in pain?"

"Not at this time, no." 

"Then leave him."

"Mr. Vecchio!"

"Leave. Him." The Detective's voice softened as he teased the white head with one hand. It was a strange peace he felt, as though that raging pseudo-prayer was being quietly answered by a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was the same hand he had felt as a little boy, protecting him and strengthening him when his world seemed to be falling apart under the fist of an alcoholic father. Sister Mary Josephine had called it his guardian angel. "My Ma raised me to believe in miracles, and I've got this funny feeling I'm about to have my faith restored." 

*** 

THE NEXT AFTERNOON

DAY 19

***

He still hadn't told Benny. When he had spoken to the Mountie over the phone, he had just said that it was "taken care of." There had been a silence, then quiet thanks, then Benny had asked to be alone. Ray had granted that. He hadn't seen him in almost twenty-four hours. 

Should he have gone through with it? Maybe he hadn't felt anything. Maybe that had just been his imagination, some last, desperate hope grasping at straws that weren't there. 

Had he sentenced Dief to a slower, more lingering death? To more pain? His head was spinning, and he wished for the reassurance, the certainty he had felt the moment he had made that choice. 

If any sequence of events could put one's faith under fire, the past three weeks had to qualify. His faith in fate, his faith in justice, his faith in the law, his faith in his fellow man, and his faith in God were all having serious problems at the moment. 

That was why he was here. The beautiful, majestically familiar architecture of Saint Michael's stretched above him as he knelt behind the pew. It was where he had spent many, many Sundays, and the environment itself was a comfort. The stained glass filtered the light into a gentle rainbow of jeweled color that played over the traditional richness of the church. Sounds were soft and reverent...the padding of feet on carpet, the murmuring of prayers, the melodious lilt of the choir practicing hymns for Sunday mass. Even the smells were calming, wood oil and leather mixed with the unmistakable smell of luxury that permeates old houses and beautiful churches. 

The crusted scabs on his knuckles hurt as he clenched his hands tightly together, resting his head on them. He wasn't exactly praying. He didn't know the words to pray, or what exactly he would pray for right now. In fact, at this particular moment, he didn't even know for sure if he was praying to someone who really was up there or not. 

What he was doing was simply allowing himself to _be_. To take a break from the horrible realities of life and responsibility that had been pounding at him. He could retreat, and he could allow his mind to all but shut off in a setting of warm, familiar grandeur. It was healing in it's own way, even if he wasn't praying. 

His peace was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Several heads turned disapprovingly in his direction, and he almost cursed as he pulled it out before it could ring again. "Vecchio," he whispered in annoyance. 

"Detective Vecchio, this is Doctor VonTrott of"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. What is it?" He knew what it was. Dief was finally gone. 

"I'm pleased to inform you that your wolf is showing marked improvement, Mr. Vecchio. We think that the coma induced by the medication is actually allowing his body to heal more easily, despite the nearly deadly amount of the medication that was administered." 

It was like Benny. Dief was in one of those comas like the Docs had put Benny in, and he was getting better. Ray's eyes widened in amazement, his voice reverentially hushed. "You're telling me he's gonna make it?"

"We can't know for sure, but I would say there is a very good chance that yes, he is going to make it. It seems you have your miracle, Detective." 

"Yeah, looks that way." Numbly, he said his goodbyes and hung up the phone. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, unsure whether or not to believe what he just heard. Part of him waited for the other shoe to drop, for the phone to ring again and tell him that something _else_ crappy had happened. There was nothing of the sort. 

Finally, a slow smile began to spread over his features, and he looked up towards the buttressed ceiling. "So maybe you're not such a bad guy after all."

Still smiling, he flipped open the phone again and dialed. When a familiar voice answered, he leaned back in the pew, crossing one long leg casually over the other as the grin on his face widened further. "Hey, Benny, I've got some news for you..."

***

THREE MONTHS LATER

DAY 109

***

A white sleeveless undershirt was slipped on over his head. A pair of boxer shorts, precisely ironed and creased, were slid up his legs. A white cotton henley went on over the undershirt, tucked neatly into a pair of dark blue jodhpurs, the legs of the trousers adorned with vivid yellow stripes. Suspenders traced their parallel lines from his narrow waist up and over his shoulders, securing the jodhpurs. Well-worn brown leather boots were tugged on over white socks, nimble fingers lacing them tightly over the curve of the calf muscle. A tunic of scarlet wool was shrugged onto broad shoulders, the five brass buttons and the velcro behind the high black collar quickly fastened. The brass buckle of a Sam Browne belt was snugged around the waist of the tunic, the cross strap thrown over the right shoulder and also secured. Finally, a thin white lanyard was threaded through the black epaulets and knotted just below the collar. 

Giving a last tug to the lanyard to assure that it hung straight, Constable Benton Fraser turned to regard his reflection in the mirror. It was a small mirror, not affording a full view of the uniform from head to toe, but then, that wasn't needed. He knew that uniform like the back of his hand - perhaps even a little bit better. The only thing the mirror was really needed for was to make sure that his hair was neat each morning, as it had a rather annoying habit of forming cowlicks that could be quite difficult to tame. 

This time, however, the man in the mirror lingered. Not only did he linger, but there was a slight smile on his face. It was not a vain smile. It was not considering his appearance as attractive, or as anything particularly special. It was considering it something of a personal triumph.

The few weeks before returning to duty in which he had been well enough to walk through the parks showed in the light, golden-brown tan than shaded his fair skin. His cheeks were lightly rosy, the cheekbones smoothly suggested, yet showing neither a deficit nor an excess of flesh. Blue eyes sparkled brightly with eagerness over returning to duty. His shoulders were square, his bearing strong, and the uniform hung as precisely as when it was first tailored. 

He looked... _healthy_. Exactly the way an RCMP officer should look. 

"What do you think?" Lifting his Stetson from it's blocks, he centered it precisely over his neatly cropped hair. Fraser turned to offer himself for commentary to the wolf who occupied the rug near the window.

Diefenbaker rolled languidly over to his side, one paw coming up to cover his muzzle. 

"I meant my appearance. Do you think Inspector Thatcher will find me suitable?" 

The head raised just long enough for Dief's brown eyes to give the human a quick once-over, then his head lolled to the rug again. A faint noise escaped him, a whine that seemed to have floated from the very depths of his lupine soul. It was a truly impressive show of suffering, calculated to melt the hardest of hearts. 

"No, I cannot stay." Fraser's voice was firm. "You know perfectly well that I had to return to duty eventually."

Another sound, this more moan than whine. 

"I am not about to carry you again." 

This time, his head popped up quite sharply, an unmistakable tinge of indignation in the intelligent eyes. 

"The veterinarian has assured me that you were completely healed three full weeks ago. Your hair has even grown back. And if you recall, buster, you weren't the only one hurt. Do you see me attempting to obtain free rides?" 

A faint, accusatory growl. 

"No, Detective Vecchio does not count. He's been kind enough to offer his Riviera as transportation to both of us ever since we came down to the States. If you want to consider that mooching, then by all means, we will walk." 

As though he had been suddenly struck down by the hand of God, Dief sagged back down to the rug, looking as though he would never rise again and was quite possibly dying right there. Fraser shook his head as he looked down. Never would he have imagined that one of the great actors of Victorian melodrama would be reincarnated as a wolf. 

The little drama was interrupted by the impatient honk of a horn, and the human part of the cast sighed. Ray was there. The Detective had insisted on taking him in on his first day back on duty, but his window of opportunity was the same as it had always been. That window generally lasted less than a minute before Ray went from the honking phase to the exasperated phase. 

Blue human eyes met brown wolf eyes, and a decision was quickly reached. Fraser bent down and scooped the large animal into his arms. Dief seemed most pleased with the arrangement, allowing himself to relax into more or less dead weight. 

As he closed the door to his apartment with his foot, Fraser came to three conclusions. _One_ : He had just been suckered rather expertly by a wolf. _Two_ : He was going to report back to his first day on duty covered in white hair. _Three_ : He and Dief were walking tomorrow. 

 

 

****

EPILOGUE 

__

(Or: What Happened To All Those People With The Bit Parts?)

***

Captain Peter LeMatt resigned from the police force when he was threatened with court martial. He acted as head of security for a small department store, but following an embarrassing incident in the ladies lingerie department, he resigned from that post as well. Currently, he is attempting to set up his own private investigative firm. 

***

Yi Sun was kept under close surveillance by Linda Callard for several weeks, until her affair with Dr. McCormick was exposed. Her arrangement with Parker was never revealed. After the affair was disclosed, Sun left Cook County and transferred to a small hospital in Michigan. Her time in Chicago, however, did show her both the responsibility and vulnerability of her occupation, and has led her to spearhead a movement to better secure patient confidentiality. 

***

Linda Callard continues to work as the head nurse in the ICU ward of Cook County General, where she was recently awarded for thirty-five years of dedicated and caring service. 

***

Francis Parker became the anchor of a small local news station outside of his hometown of Atlanta, Georgia. His confession was met with a great deal of criticism from his fellows, but has proved amazingly well-received by the people in general. His appearance on Larry King Live received the highest ratings that show has ever seen for an interview with a news personality. He has also accepted an offer from a major publisher, and is currently writing an expository book on spin in the modern media. 

***

Detective Kowalski continued to serve with the 54th for another year. Outside of the usual police work, nothing in particular happened until he changed his name and found himself in a considerable assortment of unusual circumstances. 

***

Constable John L. Grushka worked with Fraser for five days to re-integrate him to the Consulate and the current status of the endless flow of paperwork. He then transferred to the Consulate in New York, where he serves as the Assistant Deputy Liaison Officer. Also in New York is his fiancée, Constable LeAnne Brighton.

***

Chad Howell never recanted nor apologized for his role in the incident. Within a few weeks, however, his lackluster reporting skills and questionable ethics caused the Chronicle to move his column to page A-17. That move caused no apparent change to the tabloid quality of his journalistic expression, and the column was discontinued. Currently employed in the Classifieds section once more, he is dating a Single White Female who's personal ad he transcribed. He is planning on going into politics. 

***

The Reader, having finally reached the conclusion of this interminable tale, is currently suffering from a severe case of eyestrain. Hopefully, however, this has been balanced out by some small enjoyment of the story, or at the very least, some provocation of thought. 

**_ _ **

THE END 

Feedback of all kinds is not only welcome but eagerly awaited and constantly checked for at  


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